Encounter in Shadows
by Jantallian
Summary: In the aftermath of a Civil War battle, three young men are faced with the potentially tragic consequences of deciding where true loyalty lies. A family 'prequel', picking up hints from 'Father's Night' (which it helps to have read) and 'Answers after Sunset', in response to readers' requests. Updated: 1st June 17
1. Chapter 1

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Pre-word: The individual tales in _Encounter in Shadows_ are not continuous chapters forming one long story. They tell of encounters with a particular individual during one incident in the Civil War from the different points of view of those involved. Each story stands by itself, although the time-frame and action overlap to a certain extent.

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 **Encounter in Shadows**

Jantallian

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' _A friend loveth at all times and a brother is born for adversity_ _.'_ Proverbs 17:17

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 **The First Encounter**

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The cloud of battle roiled and seethed across the valley. Sporadic bursts of gun-fire and Rebel yells and answering Yankee battle cries burst upon the ear. Hooves thundered across the dry earth, raising more dust to confound vision, just as hearing was drummed into submission by the onslaught. Then, at last, things began to fade and fold and fall back into the normal patterns of military discipline. An efficient re-grouping, a determined pursuit of the enemy by the fastest scouts, an orderly withdrawal of the rest of the troops, the establishment of a secure base – all these were accomplished.

At this point, Sergeant Danny Guerra heaved a sigh which might have been relief and made his way through long evening shadows of the camp to report to his captain. Perimeter guards had been posted. The horse lines were secure and the animals fed. The munitions wagons were set under guard and fresh ammunition issued, ready for action. Fires twinkled here and there in the gathering dusk. The cloying smell of over-ripe meat being stewed or fried wafted through the camp as if daring anyone to eat the resultant meal. Lucky they were all hungry and not too discriminating about how their hunger was satisfied. _But not as hungry as those Rebs, that was for sure._ Danny's face hardened as he thought of the haggard faces of the men they had fought – the bodies honed to the leanness of drawn blades – and the feral light burning in all their eyes. They needed supplies desperately – and Danny was not sure how he could supply their need!

He pulled off his cap and rubbed his hand wearily over the stubble which passed for hair on his head. _How had it come to this? How was he betraying men he knew and lived with and respected? How was he fighting against the ones he should be riding alongside?_

He shrugged off the black thoughts threatening to smother him. Duty called. He had a job to do here, a job which he must do as well as he could so that no-one would ever guess what else he was doing.

His first and hardest task was to visit the hospital tent. He moved slowly along the row of improvised beds, sharing a few quiet words, a gentle touch, with the men whose suffering was due, at least partly, to his own divided loyalty.

Leaving the hospital, Danny moved steadily along the double row of tents, like a little street of civilisation in the middle of the wilderness of war. He checked quietly but authoritatively that the men had serviced their weapons and equipment before they sprawled in weary inaction or set about concocting their evening meal. They had to be ready for the next assault – and Danny knew all too well how swiftly it could come.

"I swear those confounded Rebs are ghosts!" a voice muttered in the depths of one tent.

"Yeah, come outta nowhere and then vanish," another agreed.

"Like a twister, sneaking up on your back. You're torn all ways when it hits you and it's gone before you realise it was there." Someone else obviously had a poetic turn of mind.

"Like a pack of damn' wolves!" The second voice was definitely not poetic about it.

Danny ducked under the flap of the tent. "That's enough, boys. They ain't super-human and you'll do yourselves no good thinking it."

"They're super-fast, though, Sarg," someone reminded him.

"Yeah, maybe we should find out what they feed their horses?" Danny joked, raising a few chuckles from the men. _Bet their horses get more to eat than those raiders do,_ he was thinking. And suddenly memory struck hard and sharp – _the lamp-lit table, the smell of warm bread and venison, the way his ma served the working men first and most, the impatience of the kid brother who never seemed to get that, however big his appetite, he was not yet a man, the laughter of the little uns …_

Ruthlessly ignoring the anguish which memory was stabbing into him, Danny continued his patrol, checking particularly the tent allocated to the advance guard of the new contingent on secondment from a Wyoming battalion. They had arrived just that very morning and been flung into battle without even time to don their uniforms. An unknown quantity as yet, these men, but they had fought well today.

As he drew near, a man ducked out of the tent and straightened up, spreading his arms and stretching mightily. He was older than Danny, certainly in his late thirties, perhaps even as much as twice Danny's age, and every year of that age was one of hard, practical experience. It spoke from the lines on his craggy face, from the shrewdness of his bright eyes, from every muscle in his tough, wiry body. This was not a man whom it would be easy to fool or intimidate. Nor was he a man who would remain in the ranks long – from his command of the men following him and his assured actions in battle, it was obvious he was accustomed to lead, rather than to follow. But since this advance group, passing through enemy territory, had not travelled in uniform, there was no clue to his rank.

As he turned to meet Danny's approach, a slight smile lightened his face. Not a man who resented the authority of others, then. "Evening, Sergeant Guerra." At least he could pronounce it correctly, although Spanish was not so common in the North.

"Cory," Danny acknowledged. "Your men settling in?"

Cory's smile became a grin. "Guess they didn't expect a battle quite so soon – but that's what we're here for, isn't it?"

The man probably equalled or outranked him; there had been no time between their arrival and the battle to find out. But for now, Danny was still responsible. He nodded and moved past him to look inside the tent. He was impressed that the six men inside stood to attention at once. His own men knew him well enough to know he did not expect formality after such a fight, but these men were still on the alert, despite all they had been through that day.

"At ease!" His eyes travelled over the new recruits. Not because they were new and raw, but because they had come from a well-seasoned company as part of a contingent to make up the strength of his own. He needed to assess their experience and discipline in order to make his report.

He saw two older men and four about his own age. Ranchers and hunters, all of them, by their independent bearing and sturdy physique. The older men were much in the mould of their leader. They looked him over closely before resuming their seats. Of the younger four, the two brown-haired ones looked like twins and slumped back onto their bedrolls with almost identical movements. The third, rough and hairy and built like a mountain, gave him a curt nod, before squatting down to attend to the gun he was cleaning. They were all too experienced to let an opportunity for relaxation pass. The fourth man, a tall blonde with a direct, piercing gaze, remained standing as he looked past Danny and said quietly: "I know you've been with them, but can I request leave to now, sir?"

The leader nodded and the young man addressed Danny directly: "Three of our men were wounded. Permission to visit them, Sergeant G-er-ra?" He stumbled a little over the name, but Danny could forgive that: it wasn't deliberate.

"Granted. You know where the hospital tent is?"

The blonde nodded, gave a brief "Thanks, Sergeant!" and was gone in one swift, confident movement. Danny had no doubt that the leader had already ascertained the condition of his own men, just as he himself had, but he obviously encouraged mutual responsibility amongst them. Now Cory looked after the young man, dashing off supperless and unrested, to support his comrades, and shook his head in wry affection: "He never did put his own needs first."

"Sometimes that's a good thing." Danny was not sure why he was moved to comment on the young man's principles, unless it was because they were one of the most obvious things about him. He also had no idea why he was lingering here, unless it was to put off his next dutiful encounter. But Danny had not been raised to put off problems.

Finally, striding firmly through the shadowy camp, he arrived at the pool of light emanating from the captain's tent. As usual, it was buzzing with activity: reports pouring in as the scouts arrived back, orderlies moving briskly with messages, orders from HQ, reconnaissance, supply reports … Danny just stood to attention in the shadow cast by the tent, waiting.

"Ah, Sergeant Gerrer," He did it deliberately of course. Danny was an excellent sergeant, but he was a Southerner and, by definition, could not to be allowed to rank alongside a true-blooded Yankee. Captain Blake never let him forget it, using his name as a constant reminder, even though he treated Danny with scrupulous equality in every other way, and indeed relied on him completely.

 _If only he knew!_ Danny's mind went black and cold again as he remembered how he had changed his name. How, standing over the slaughtered bodies of his wife and baby son, he had sworn to carry this bloody war to the heart of the enemy. So he had adopted his mother's maiden name – the war-like name his pa always teased was so apt to her feisty nature. He had become Danny Guerra and left the past behind, vanishing into the ranks of his enemy.

Now his concern must be focused on the present and the immediate struggle.

"I can't understand it," Blake was saying to his lieutenants. "This is the third time they've come at us out of nowhere." He bent over the map, tracing the route of their supposedly secret foray into enemy territory, with an angry finger. "Every time, they seem to have known the best place for an ambush, yet we had no warning, no sight of them. What the hell were those scouts doing?"

"I've had my best men out there, sir," Stevens, the chief scout, asserted equally angrily. "There was no sign. They might just as well be damned Apache!"

"How can there be no sign of a whole battalion of men, Stevens?" the captain demanded.

"With respect, sir, I think there's less than a battalion," Danny ventured, looking hard at Stevens, who nodded in agreement. "If they have forty men, I'd be surprised."

"Yeah, they move too swiftly, too secretly, for a big troop," Stevens agreed. "It's hard to tell numbers from the battle tracks, but we chased fewer men than that from the field and they left no dead behind."

"But you didn't capture any of them," Blake pointed out. "Are you telling me they just disappeared?"

Stevens reddened under his deep tan. "Yes, sir. Vanished into the terrain as if they were born in it."

"So you're telling me we're facing a bunch of Apache or Comanche or something like that?" his superior sneered.

"You're facing men with skills equal to any tribe," his chief scout told him. "And their intelligence is excellent."

Danny kept his face impassive. Since he'd received the instructions about how to keep the raiding band informed, he was not surprised that the scout was unable to detect their means of communication. Inwardly, he sighed again. _This cursed war ate the heart and soul out of a man!_

Meanwhile, Blake had turned back into the tent and picked up a dispatch from his table. He glanced swiftly through it, folded it and sealed it in an envelope.

"Lieutenant Tate!"

"Sir!" The lieutenant stepped forward. To Danny's eyes he looked wary and not without reason.

"Take this and return to headquarters. Go straight to Colonel Nelson. Hand it to him. To no-one else, under any circumstances! Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir!" Lieutenant Tate took the envelope, saluted smartly and made off briskly to the horse-lines.

There was consternation in the air. Not just Danny's own concern for what the possible content of that very secret dispatch might be, but on the part of his fellow officers. It was highly unusual to send out a messenger this late in the day, still less with such very specific instructions about secrecy.

But there was no time to worry about it now. Blake was asking for his report on the condition of the men and, in particular, the performance of their new recruits. Danny tried to do justice to the undoubted skill and experience he knew Cory had, and to the discipline and demeanour of his men, but Blake was in no mood to hear praise of others. He was not sure if he had won this battle, but he had a sneaking feeling that the ghost raiders, the wolf band, had the better of him.

Blake was about to dismiss them both when there was a disturbance at the edge of the camp. Despite the deepening darkness, two of the scouts came in at a steady trot, their ponies side by side and a body dangling and dragging between them. They skidded to a halt in front of the captain's tent, letting the man they had captured fall to the ground.

"Prisoner for you, sir!" One of them jumped down and hauled the man to his feet.

The uncertain lamplight and flickering firelight revealed a nightmare vision to Danny. A vision from the grave. For silhouetted against the dim light was his father. His dead father. There was no mistaking the braced stance, ready for action like a mountain cat waiting to strike and kill - the angle of the lean jaw, lifted defiantly against all odds – the broad shoulders flung back – the line of the sinewy body, vibrating with a power which belied its lack of inches – even the shape of the rough, dark hair outlined against the saffron glow of the lamp – it was all the same. He expected at any moment to hear his pa's low, dangerous growl as he challenged the surrounding enemy.

But his father was dead. Danny had stood by the laboriously piled stones which marked his grave in the middle of nowhere. Nowhere now the blackened beams of the house, the barn, the stores and the smithy, of all the outbuildings, had crumbled and fallen into dust, blown away on the hot wind. The grave which held also his mother and all that could be recovered of his younger siblings – every one of them, or so he had thought …

From where he stood, a little to the right and behind the prisoner, all Danny could see was the black outline of that familiar silhouette. Yet this man, this dark lean shadow, could not possibly be his father.

 _Man?_ It was obvious when Blake yelled for more lights, that the captured Rebel, for all his courage and defiance, was little more than a boy. The increased illumination revealed he was very young, despite the hard-honed planes of his profile and the latent power and endurance characterising his physique. His eyes gleamed bright, just the same as … but Dany could not see the colour. His body, lean and tough, showed the cruel paring of habitual starvation. Like most Confederate soldiers, his uniform, if he ever had one, had long ago worn out: he was wearing dark blue pants, no doubt plundered from some dead Yankee, and a rough hessian butternut shirt, too big for him, which was clasped around his slim waist by an empty gun-belt. If he once had a hat or a cap, it had been lost in the struggle, revealing that familiar hair, thick, dark and curly, tumbling over his forehead and clustering in waves around his neck, for it was badly in need of a cut. The same Danny would have seen every time he looked in the mirror, if he had not taken the precaution of shaving his off with a razor.

Captain Blake looked as if he would like to cut the young man's throat, never mind his hair. After such fierce fighting and an extensive pursuit, all there was to show for it was one miserable boy! And Blake intended that this boy would bear the brunt of the losses and humiliation his troop had suffered at the hands of the raiders.

"What happened?" he demanded of the scouts.

"Just ran 'im down, sir, like you –"

"That's a damn lie!" the prisoner snarled in contradiction, his hair-trigger temper unmistakable. "Y' only caught up with me 'cause a rattler struck my horse!"

The voice froze Danny where he stood. Tone and attitude alike, it was as if Zak Harper had spoken from the grave.

"Matched the snake ridin' it, then, didn't it?" the scout jeered.

The next moment, he was knocked flat and the boy's hands were round his throat. The lightning move stunned everyone momentarily, until all hell broke loose as several other men flung themselves into the melee. The young captive was set fair to get beaten to pulp by sheer weight of numbers, although, judging by numerous howls of pain, it would not be without his extracting a cost from his assailants.

Danny pulled his cap well down over his eyes, so that they and his face were in shadow. He gave brief thanks for the hours he'd spent erasing his Texan accent, drew in a deep breath, and let it out in his most stentorian parade ground bellow.

"Stand down, all of you!"

The bundle of tangled limbs split apart and resolved itself into separate bodies. Danny made a lightning survey and identified the least volatile of them. "Thompson, Craig, secure the prisoner! The rest of you, fall in – ranks – now!"

There was a flurry of movement, as discipline was restored amongst the gaping spectators. It ceased to be a free-for-all fight and resolved into more of a military trial. Danny waved the scouts forward to continue their report and himself stepped back into the shadow of the tent.

"Thank you, Sergeant Gerrer." Damn the man, even in the middle of this, he couldn't resist getting in that dig!

Blake stared at the young man before him in a manner guaranteed to intimidate. The prisoner lifted his head defiantly again and stared right back. Danny could see his eyes now, but he knew even without seeing that they were a deep, turquoise blue, almost exactly matching his own. And the eyes blazed with all the passionate and indomitable integrity which their father had lived by.

"You will make it much easier on yourself," Blake told his prisoner softly, "if you just tell us what we want to know right now."

The prisoner regarded him with a small, mocking grin. "Ask all y' like!" His voice was a low growl, surprisingly deep for one so young; it sounded as if he was trying hard not to laugh.

Blake looked surprised, but barked off a rapid fusillade of questions. They were met with silence. The prisoner just smiled that mocking little smile. Blake could indeed ask all he liked, but he was not going to get any answers!

The captain had evidently worked this out for himself. His own eyes gleamed with a certain harsh satisfaction. If the damn' Reb wanted to give his evidence the hard way, he was only too willing to oblige him. Blake was not naturally a cruel man, but he was hard pressed to provide results for his superiors and he had just suffered an ignominious trouncing at the hands of some fly-by-night bunch of renegade Rebels, who didn't even know the rules of military engagement.

"Very well! I _will_ have answers from you," he assured his prisoner.

"Ask all y' like!" was the only response he got – and this time there was a definite chuckle after the statement.

Blake ground his teeth and rapped out an order: "Sergeant, prepare the prisoner for a lashing."

A murmur of approval ran through the watching ranks. They'd all suffered a blow to their pride and the best of them were thinking as well of wounded comrades in the hospital tent, maybe crippled or dying. Revenge had a sweet taste, even if it was only on one of their enemy. And anyway, no matter how much the boy was about to suffer, the captain would stop short of killing him while there was a hope of getting the information they so badly needed.

Danny raised his hand in salute and used the opportunity to pull his cap so far down that it pinched his eyebrows. He strode smartly forward, but positioned himself between the prisoner and the captain. No way did he want to stand side by side with this Rebel. He could only hope that the almost identical planes of their faces would go unnoticed. In height and build he was the bigger and much more muscular of the two of them, but if the boy had been better fed and Danny had not been clad in a concealing uniform, the resemblance would have been all too obvious. As it was, if no-one saw their profiles together or matched the colour of their eyes …

The boy looked up, his eyes still blazing with defiance and that half-grin, which used to cause such affectionate exasperation in everyone on the ranch, twitching his lips. Danny looked at the ground, avoiding all eye contact, as he grabbed the prisoner's tunic by the shoulders and ripped it from top to bottom. He flung away the pieces, yanking them savagely out of the gun-belt. The boy probably didn't even feel the slash of the rough material across his bare skin: he had been well trained.

"Spread his arms and brace him!" Danny ordered the two guards. This at least would keep that betraying face downwards and concealed by his tumbling hair.

When they had done so, he walked slowly round the prisoner, as if surveying his stance and making sure he was ready for the punishment. He knew what he would find when he looked at the boy's back. God knows, he'd seen his father use the belt on him often enough in the face of his middle son's stubborn independence and defiance of authority, for they were two spirits and two wills that were too alike to live in the same space. But he feigned surprise.

"Turn him!" he ordered abruptly. The command was carried out at once. When Blake was looking at the boy's bare back and the marks on his skin, some of them pretty recent, Danny spoke, with both knowledge and hope, to his commander.

"With respect, sir, I'm not sure that a lashing is going to make much difference to this one!"

Blake laughed. "Looks as if his own captain has had some trouble disciplining him!" He thought for a moment. "Do it anyway. It'll pass the time while we heat some irons."

"Is that absolutely necessary, sir?" a voice asked from the crowd. A firm, mature voice – one swayed by reason, rather than revenge or frustration. The new man, Cory, moved forward a little from where he and his men had been watching at the back of the crowd, obviously unafraid and making it clear who had spoken.

Everyone held their breath. Questioning Blake's orders was something they had all learned not to do. Ten to one, such a challenge to his authority would only make things even worse.

"Just – do – it!" Blake ordered his sergeant between gritted teeth.

Someone thrust the bull-whip into Danny's hands. It wasn't the first time he'd administered such punishment and it wouldn't be the last – but it was the time which would hurt the most. _God forgive me, little brother. I tried so often to shield you from this_.

There was not much time to think and very little he could do. But a whip, skilfully used, could create varying degrees of pain and damage. Danny was probably as expert as anyone else who had such an onerous duty. And there was an advantage because he had turned the prisoner away from the watching ranks. No-one but Blake would see exactly where the blows fell – and Blake probably just want to see a lot of blood flowing. Very well …

At the first fall of the lash, he knew that his brother would take the pain, recognising it and accepting it, then allowing it to trigger responses which were so deeply ingrained that they were automatic. They had all learned, in the face of what should be overwhelming agony, to step aside from the needs and demands of the body and remain in the quiet centre at the heart of the storm until it was over. It conquered the physical, but not always the emotional suffering – it could not touch the grief of coming too late to the ranch and finding his parents and family slaughtered by outlaws and buried by kindly neighbours – and it could never blot from his mind the sight of his ravaged wife and the baby dead in her arms. But now it was the only defence, the only strength, they both had. He must rely on it as never before to deaden the anguish he felt about the torture he had to administer, double traitor as he was.

Danny put considerable force into that first blow, the lash cutting into the flesh across the shoulders to release a stream of bright blood which ran down the lean muscles of the boy's back like a silken cloak. The following strikes sounded more forceful than they were and he did his best to keep them from overlaying each other too much, while avoiding opening up the whole back raw either.

"Enough!" After five lashes Blake stopped the punishment and ordered Thompson and Craig to make the prisoner face him again. "Are you ready to answer my questions now?"

"Ask all y' like!" The growl was, if anything, even more challenging and amused than before.

Blake glowered. This was becoming futile. He was tired and so were his men. He needed a quick result, not just to assuage his pride but because then they could all get some sleep. Well, all of them except the prisoner, who would be in considerable pain for a long time. Serve the little bastard right!

"Bind his hands behind him!"

The two guards were quick to obey. They were decent enough men, when not provoked, and holding another man – and one so much younger than them – for a flogging was not their preferred evening recreation.

"Sergeant Gerrer, you will hold the prisoner facing the ranks."

Silently Danny moved behind his brother, sliding his hands through the bound arms and pulling the slim body taut against his own. He could feel the resistance in every muscle and was surprised when the boy actually turned as ordered. Perhaps it didn't matter to him which way he was looking – his obdurate defiance and its result would be the same. Not for nothing had the family called him 'Little Stubborn'! If Blake thought he could force him to co-operate, he was seriously mistaken, but that did not stop the captain threatening.

"If a cold lash won't make you speak, let's see what hot iron will do!"

A ripple went through the crowd. Looking out over his brother's shoulder, the kid brother who was dead and now alive again, Danny saw nothing of the mass of well-known faces in the ranks facing them. His eye was drawn instead to the little band of newcomers, who had grouped themselves about Cory and were standing drawn back and separate from the rest of the men. He hoped they weren't going to try anything. It would only end in more trouble, especially as there were only five of them. No, six - the tall blonde had emerged between two tents, at the very back of the crowd nearest the hospital. There was nothing at all Danny or the prisoner or any of them could do about what would happen next.

What actually happened next was violence of a totally unexpected kind. From all around the edges of the camp, the shadows were suddenly alive with Rebel yells. A bugle shrilled, splitting the night, and was cut off in mid-note. There was a roar of flame as several tents caught fire. The unexpected rumble of wheels suggested that at least one wagon was being driven off in haste.

After a split second of stunned immobility, the ranks broke and scattered to the defence of the security of their base. Blake yelled for his horse and started for the lines, his orderly running ahead of him. But he was too late. The grinding of wagon-wheels was overwhelmed by the pounding of hooves, as loose horses thundered like a storm-cloud through the camp.

Danny and the prisoner were left standing, bound together, before the captain's tent, as chaos erupted all around them. But it was not chaos for the raiders. No sooner had the horse-herd swept by than two mounted men bore down on them out of the night. They were obviously intent on retrieving their captured comrade and would stop at nothing to do so.

Not only was their intent clear, but the gleaming copper-coloured hair of one of the riders was achingly familiar. _Trust Callum Harper to be in the middle of this!_ Danny thought without surprise. _He'd been fishing his little cousin out of trouble since the kid was three – and tonight was no exception._ Who the hell the other man was, Danny had no idea. He caught only a brief glimpse of a calm, austere, inscrutable face framed by flying black hair which would not have been out of place on the Apache to whom he had been compared.

It was all happening much too quickly.

Danny wrenched his arms free from his brother's and pulled out his belt-knife. He slashed the rope which bound the prisoner and gave him an encouraging shove. "Run, Pequeño terco, run!"

The boy turned, arrested in his escape by the familiarity of the voice that used his nick-name. His bright blue eyes widened in utter shock as they locked with a pair exactly the same.

"Dan?"

"Yes!"

They stood staring at each other. Then the boy flung his arms round the man in a desperate hug.

Dan had to break the embrace, hold him off at arms' length. "No time! Now hit me hard and get the hell out of here – and God go with you!"

The horsemen were bearing down on them at a frightening speed.

"Run, Wolf-cub, run!"

A fist thudded into Dan's jaw with unexpected force and his head rang - and so did his ears, with the single word: "Thanks!"

The boy began to run furiously through the camp, running, against all reason, away his rescuers who were bearing swiftly down on him. He raced down the street of tents, now deserted and partly on fire. But he could not outrun the horses, if that was his aim, as their riders urged them even faster, riding knee to knee as if they were one unit. At the very last moment, the two horses turned slightly apart, flanking the boy. His arms were seized from either side just as he took a running jump into the air. By some miracle of co-ordination, his feet found purchase on their stirrups and he was standing between the two horses, his own hands fiercely gripping the shoulders of the riders. The two horses continued at a full gallop, with perfect precision, bearing their prize out of the camp.

Dan struggled dazedly up off the ground and stood staring into the smoke and flames as they swallowed up his brother and his cousin. He was not the only witness. A slight movement in the shadows between the tents drew his attention. Someone had been cut off in their dash to defend the perimeter by the furious charge of the two rescuers. Now Dan was being watched with quiet speculation. The watcher walked slowly towards him, ignoring for the moment the fighting going on in the distance. When he came up to Dan, he halted and looked long at him with that piercing pale blue gaze. The cut rope lay on the trampled, blood-stained grass between them.

Another sigh, his last one, heaved Dan's chest. The young blonde was a man of principle, you could see it in every inch of him. There was nothing that could be said in his own defence. He had freed a prisoner of war and the evidence was right there at their feet in front of the captain's tent. For doing this, he would be executed.

Sure enough, from somewhere not far off in the surrounding darkness, Blake's angry voice was already bellowing: "Sergeant Gerrer, keep a tight guard on that prisoner!"

The young man gave Dan another long look. He said gently: "A brother born for adversity?"

Dan looked down at his bloody hands and soaking shirt. His voice was a choked whisper: "A brother born of the same blood."

There was so little time left now.

"That's why he couldn't hit you hard enough, even to save you." The blonde seemed to be coming to a decision.

Dan barely saw the swift, sledge-hammer punch which plunged him finally into blackness. Even while he was falling, the young man stooped and picked up the cut rope and thrust it into his pocket. A moment later, he too had vanished into the smoky shadows of the night.

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Notes:

This story of the first encounter was originally written as a 'standalone', but then other voices wanted to tell their version, so there are more 'chapters' being added as quickly as they are written. While they could be posted as separate stories, it seems more appropriate to keep them together.

Pronunciation of 'Guerra': g - EH - r r - ah

I thought I had invented the rescue stunt carried out by Cal and Vin, but it can actually be seen on film in 'Red River', although there it takes place in a stampeding herd. (Must have seen that film as a kid and forgotten everything except the stunt!).

By 1863 Confederate generals such as Robert E. Lee often spent as much time and effort searching for food for their men as they did in planning strategy and tactics. Individual commanders often had to "beg, borrow or steal" food and ammunition from whatever sources were available, including captured Union depots and encampments, and private citizens regardless of their loyalties.


	2. Chapter 2

**Encounter in Shadows**

Jantallian

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' _A friend loveth at all times and a brother is born for adversity_ _.'_ Proverbs 17:17

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 **The Second Encounter**

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Out of the narrow mouth of the battle-scarred valley, two wagons lurched and swayed until the flats bordering the river were reached. Their speed increased considerably after this as the skillful drivers urged on their fresh and willing teams. They had taken the precaution of hitching up their own horses, rather than trying to steal ones from the enemy who would not know their drivers and prove a hazard in the darkness.

Presently both wagons slowed and turned into the shallows of the wide river. They parted company and headed in opposite directions, one upstream, the other down. The water here was not deep and they were able to proceed in midstream. Despite the fact that it was full night, the drivers appeared to know exactly where they were going with no more light than the stars.

Not long after, the wagons were followed by two horses, whose riders draw to a halt on the bank of the river to watch their shadowy progress into the distant gloom. Between the pair, a young man was standing with a foot on each of the inner stirrups, his hands lightly resting on the shoulders of the riders.

Lieutenant Warwick, riding on the left, gave a nod of satisfaction. The plan had worked well. Their decoy prisoner had distracted the Yankee troops sufficiently for his Ranulfiar - the 'raiding wolf warriors' as he had laughingly christened them one night - to launch a covert attack, capturing both a munitions wagon and a supply wagon. They had been able to extract the captive without a problem. The rest of the raiders had dispersed as silently as they had attacked, melting into the shadows of the night in a multitude of different directions, which made them impossible to track as a group. They had pulled off a highly successful raid and gained urgently needed supplies to send to the army in the east, as well as for their own needs.

He looked down at the young man they had swept up from right under the nose of their enemy. "You did well, Wolf-cub. Now get up behind the Second. We must travel."

"Spirit?"

"Y' horse is safe!" the red-headed second-in-command assured him. "Lay like the dead until Bentley got to him. Y' can have him back when we catch up with them."

The young man just nodded. He dropped down between the horses and then vaulted back up behind the Second. Lieutenant Warwick studied him for a moment. It was not possible to see much by starlight. What he did see disquieted him, but he made no comment. The phenomenal success of his raids depended upon every member of the band concentrating totally on what they were doing. The young man's concern over his horse was not only because he cared about it, but because he knew that by riding double their progress would be less swift. All the same, the leader knew there was more at issue than just the condition of a horse.

"Stop worryin'!" the Second told him with a grin. "The Wolf-cub's so skinny, ain't no horse gonna notice him ridin' it!"

They both waited for the customary quick retort, for the easy banter of camaraderie which usually flowed in the euphoria after a successful raid. The young man made no response.

"We'll all eat well tonight," the Lieutenant assured them. It had been so long since they had had a decent meal that they had almost forgotten what one tasted like. And the young were always hungry!

Again there was no response. More than this, the Second felt not even the flicker of movement in the still body riding behind him. He exchanged a heartfelt glance with his leader, but his own advice had been good: they couldn't afford to worry now.

Without further words, Lieutenant Warwick led them down into the river, crossing straight over and ignoring the way the wagons had split up. They rode at a steady lope, not bothering to hide their tracks, but making several wide curves instead of heading directly east and, on one occasion, turning back on their tracks in a complete circle. It was not long before the sandy earth began to turn to much rockier desert terrain. At the edge of this, they caught up with one of the wagons.

It was halted at the mouth of a narrow canyon, scarcely wide enough for it to pass through. Men were swarming over it like a colony of ants, each one efficiently carrying out their part of dealing with the cargo without a single order being given. It was the munitions wagon and much-needed ammunition was being loaded on to their horses and the pack animals they had brought with them.

It did not take long until almost all of it had been hauled out. The Lieutenant gave a hand-signal and the men immediately mounted up and dispersed in their separate ways. Only a driver remained with the wagon. He saluted and urged the team into a furious gallop, as if they had been spooked. He was heading in a southerly direction across the softer terrain. The wheel-marks were clearly visible and, just to encourage any pursuers, he tossed out a handful of bullets now and then. Warwick grinned to himself. Presently the wagon would be abandoned in the soft margins of the river, just deep enough to make it difficult to get to and with just enough ammunition cases visible to ensure that anyone finding it would be forced to investigate whether there was anything left to salvage. _Nothing like wasting other people's time!_ Meanwhile, the driver would ride and lead his team back to their camp.

Once the wagon and the men had disappeared, the three of them moved into the mouth of the canyon and dismounted in a patch of deep shadow. From here they could look out across the plain to the river, although little could be seen, even with the keen night-sight they had developed. Everything appeared still and tranquil. Nevertheless, all three remained on their feet, alert and ready, with the horses' heads turned towards the canyon, ready to mount at any moment.

Again, it was not long before they heard the sound of the second wagon approaching; silent maneuvering was almost impossible and there had been no time to grease the axles or muffle the harness. This time the driver did not stop, but continued on up the narrow passage, like a cork into a bottle-neck. Once the wagon had passed them, the three watchers straightaway began to obliterate its tracks as best they could for some way before the entrance. When they had finished, the trail gave the impression that the wagon had simply been lifted into the sky by some giant eagle and returned to earth a quarter of a mile further on. It wouldn't fool an experienced tracker for long in daylight, but once more it would delay pursuit, since the mouth of the canyon was not immediately obvious, especially in the dark, unless you knew where to look for it.

As they walked back to their horses, the Lieutenant viewed the shirtless back of the youngest member of his pack with concern. He'd hoped they had been quick enough to prevent any kind of physical torture being inflicted. Evidently he had been wrong. There was, however, absolutely nothing he could do about it now. And he knew that the boy knew it. They were making the speediest return possible, given the necessity for absolute secrecy, to their secure camp and the needed skill of their surgeon-doctor. Until then, the planned course of the raid was paramount.

They mounted up again and followed the twisting tunnel of the canyon, riding in the deep shadows under the cliffs as if they were riding a broad, grassy trail leading home. Within another quarter of a mile, they caught up with the second wagon. It was being methodically stripped of its contents in the same way as the munitions wagon, but with much more joy. There was not a sound from the wolf pack, but their exultation in the success of their raid and the prospect of a decent meal, for the first time in who remembered how long, was palpable.

While the Lieutenant and the Second joined in the work, the young man who had been riding double ran to where the horses were standing patiently drawn up in a line, ready for loading. As he neared them, there was a soft snort and a pony, sturdy and wild, lifted its head and trotted towards him. It obviously had Appaloosa blood, for its head and rump had the characteristic 'snowflake' spots, dark brown on white background, while the rest of its forequarters were bay. It butted the boy hard in the stomach and he rubbed its crest vigorously, murmuring softly under his breath. The affection of their reunion could not be mistaken and was echoed by the relief of the humans, as the men loading their horses paused briefly and grinned their appreciation of his return to them.

Just as the munitions wagon had been baited to delay their enemy, so the empty supplies wagon was run forward and sent plunging into a deep crevasse in the floor of the canyon. Broken casks and split boxes spilled from its interior. But the enemy could never be sure they had really lost all the wagon contained unless they were prepared to climb down and investigate. _And any scout worth his salt would do that!_

Then the Lieutenant lead the whole company as they wound their way up the canyon, penetrating further and further into the rocky maze. There was no chance that their tracks could be followed. Even so, their progress was hardly conventional. At a certain point, they left the floor of the canyon and began to climb up and over the escarpment, descending on the other side into an even narrower gully, which they followed north. When this was blocked by another arm of the mountains, they simply went on climbing the steep face until they reached the summit of another ridge. Here the mountain wall reared up to the high mesa. The band traversed along its side, turning this way and that as they mounted higher and higher. The horses scrambled willingly alongside their riders, knowing water and food and rest lay ahead: their unshod hooves found a footing where no cavalry-shod horse could have gone. A series of precarious ledges enabled the whole company to climb to a height which any mounted pursuer would have ignored as impossible.

At last, with a heave and a snort and a thud of hooves and an almost universal sigh of contentment, they were home.

 **#####**

Steward Vincent St John Warwick – to give him his full name, which nobody in the Ranulfiar ever did – was first to the top, extending a hand as everyone else clambered over the edge and greeting each of them by name:

"Tod …. Greg … Raoul, c'est un bon nuit … Gabriel … Pete … Samson (as he patted the two great hounds loping up alongside the man) … Doc, got some customers for you, I'm afraid … Keilder … Bentley, thanks for picking up Spirit for the Wolf-cub … Hammer …" and so on, until all thirty seven of them had made it home. Last came his second-in-command with his cousin: "Cal … Jess, thanks, you did what we needed."

Blue eyes sparkled for a moment in the clear starlight gilding the plateau, but the young man he had congratulated just ducked his head and looked away, as if unwilling to be praised. The two older men exchanged another heartfelt glance, but Callum Harper knew his cousin thoroughly and Vin Warwick was experienced enough in handling his band of volatile young men to wisely leave well alone, at least for the moment.

The plateau was alive with brisk movement as horses were unloaded, rubbed down, fed and either hitched to the picket line or left to wander if they could be trusted. Their captured bounty was carefully stored in the caves which hollowed out the ridge rising like a shield wall at the north end of the mesa. Tomorrow their task would be to transport ammunition and food to the hard-pressed regular troops, but for tonight they could celebrate and rest. Water was drawn up from the natural well in one of the caves and fires were lighted in the carefully shielded cooking area. Men kicked off their boots in order to move more silently, not to mention giving their weary feet a rest. Shirts were pulled off too, making good use of the plentiful water supply to wash away the grime and blood of battle and the charcoal with which all but one of them had blackened their skin for the night-raid.

Vin checked with Doc in his hospital cave, exchanging a joke and an encouraging hug with the injured men. _Nothing serious, thank the Lord!_ They could ill afford to lose any more men, although doubtless higher command would have a number of replacements they couldn't make fit in anywhere else. The raiding wolf-pack, his Ranulfiar, was highly irregular, made up as it was of the insubordinate, the wild, the reckless and the occasional released convict. It was never going to function like a normal army unit and the only fame it was likely to accrue its commander was notoriety and putting the fear of God into the enemy. Vin was content with that. From a bunch of recalcitrant misfits, he had managed for forge together a brotherhood who would die for each other and who were skilled and seasoned enough to avoid such an eventuality most of the time. Their varied talents, experiences and backgrounds were complementary and bound together by a matchless pride in and loyalty to each other. _Which reminded him …_

"Did you treat the Wolf-cub?"

Doc shook his head. "Haven't seen him since we came up. What's he done now?" He sounded justifiably resigned to the routine bodily battering which resulted from this particular member of the pack's total disregard for safety.

"He took a lashing on our behalf," Vin said absently as he moved to look out of the cave doorway.

"Last I saw, he was settlin' Spirit, talkin' to him," one of the men volunteered.

"So what's new?" another laughed affectionately. "That boy practically speaks horse!"

He was probably entitled to say 'boy', by virtue of his long membership of the band, although he was not so much older than the youngest of them. Doc and Samson, their blacksmith, somewhere in their thirties, were the only ones with any approach to maturity. Cal and Vin were older than the other men under their command, both in years and life-experience, which enabled them to provide the rock of stability that the younger ones needed. Of the rest, most had barely made it into their twenties. Yet it was a mistake to underestimate any of them.

Vin nodded briefly, accepting the information, and raise his hand in a salute as he left them. He tracked down Cal at the field kitchen, checking that the cooking was underway with a minimum of betraying smoke.

"Where's Jess?"

Cal rolled his eyes and gave him wry grin. "Communin' with his spirit, of course! Ain't anything to pick between the two of them for bein' impervious to orders."

"Did you give him orders?" Vin inquired disbelievingly.

Cal shook his head: "Just sayin'!"

"And that pony does exactly what he says," Vin pointed out. "Couldn't have made the raid if it didn't sham dead to order."

"Jess's orders," Cal agreed, grinning again.

"Horses are all fed now," Vin observed, leaving Cal to finish his overseeing and striding further out onto the open plateau. He could see the Appaloosa standing stock-still in the middle. The pony's head was up and his ears were pricked tight as he gazed across the broad flat mesa towards the cliff edge. Following the animal's rapt attention, Vin could make out a figure, kneeling in the shelter of a concealing boulder. Jess was too experienced and wary to show himself against the skyline. _But what did the young fool think he was doing, ignoring that back?_

The boy had his back to the camp and was apparently gazing out over the foothills in the direction they had come. The starlight revealed clearly the long cuts across his shoulders, the blood clotted darkly in places and still running sluggishly in others. Vin gave an impatient sigh and started out to fetch him in for the medical attention he undoubtedly required.

A hand on his shoulder halted him in his tracks. Cal, of course. Vin swung round, for the first time that day allowing the strain and weariness and anger he was feeling to show as he faced his friend. Cal was so much more than just a trusted subordinate. Now they were almost at odds for once.

"Leave him be," Cal ordered softly.

"Cal! He's still bleeding after a couple of hours. The wounds will be full of dust. He must be in pain."

"Leave him be, Vin," Cal repeated. "Let it go for now."

"And how long is 'for now'?" Vin demanded, as he turned back to look again at the distant figure. "How long do you expect him to stay standing in that condition?"

Cal stepped up beside him and laid a reassuring arm across his shoulders. "I'll tell you sometime how Zak Harper trained his sons."

There was a long pause. Then Vin shrugged, although he did not shrug off Cal's grip. "I dare say the smell of food will bring him in."

"Nothing surer!" Cal agreed and, with one last long look at the kneeling young man, he steered Vin back to the concealed camp-fire.

 **#####**

In the darkness at the edge of the cliff, the cold stones bit into Jess's knees. Even if he had not automatically acted to make sure he was concealed, he would still have fallen to them. In his head, he could hear Father Paul: _When there is no place left to go, boy, go to your knees!_ Deep at the core of his being, the savage guilt and pain tore with renewed power. More than his back was bleeding.

He stared out across the black and featureless miles separating him from his brother. His whole body convulsed as he was wracked with the agony of grief, but not a sound escaped him.

 **#####**

Everything in the mesa camp was arranged to maintain concealment and that included light and smoke from fires and the normal noise level caused by over thirty men and more horses inhabiting one spot. So the main fire was at the bottom of a hollow dip in the ground just in front of the caves. The men could sit around on the sloping sides and in many ways it was an ideal arrangement, enabling them to communicate easily both verbally and with the silent hand-signals they had perfected.

It would be a while before the long awaited meal was ready to serve. One of the reasons the band was so cohesive was that they all ate together, sharing their supplies and the task of communal cooking under Raoul's eagle eye ("naturellement, I am the chef du camp!") unlike most troops where individual soldiers were expected to cater for themselves. The mood was exultant. If there had not been the necessity for secrecy and silence, the men would have been cheering and hollering to the heavens their delight in outwitting their enemy at so little cost and with such great profit. That was impossible, for voices would carry far on the still night air. But they were not deprived of an outlet for all this passion and celebration.

As the troop gathered in the hollow, a very soft drumming began, mimicking the sound of galloping hooves. Around the circle, men stood and began to move, their steps tracing in miniature the way they had ambushed and surrounded the Yankees. A faint, sharp clicking – stones being struck together – supplied the sound of gunfire. The movement became part depiction, part dance, as the shape of the struggle was etched by bodies against the firelight. Then withdrawal and stillness. From this they began the stealthy approach to surround the perimeter of the enemy camp. So concentrated were they on this re-enactment, that a sudden movement from the shadows above almost took them by surprise.

A lithe, dark figure leapt from the lip of the hollow and landed on the farther edge of the circle in a powerful crouch. This was immediately followed by a swift sideways roll, which the other participants knew represented a fall from a horse. The young man rose to his feet and walked haltingly back towards the fire. His dragging, uneven steps and slouched body perfectly conveyed how he had been picked up and carried forcibly into the middle of the Yankee camp. Then came the part none of the others knew about.

Everything was still. The whole attention of the troop was on the single figure next to the fire, just as they had waited in the shadows for the signal to make their second attack. But something had to happen first. The young man bowed his head. Now he was not someone they knew and would die for. He was alone. Facing torture. Facing death. Alone with no assurance that he could be rescued. It was a risk he had embraced willingly, for the sake of what they all fought for. But now, in this instant, every man watching knew the cost. Or so they thought.

The slight figure raised his head. He was just a black silhouette against the firelight, but from that shape radiated a defiance which made the brotherhood respond with the almost silent applause necessity had devised - the drumming of fingertips on the palm of the hand, which was all the sound that could be risked. He ignored it. He deliberately placed his feet wide apart and stretched his arms to their fullest limit. Then he bent forward as though he was being held down. The marks on his back were clear in the cold starlight and the warm glow of the flames. His body quivered as if the lash was indeed falling.

There was a pause of about five seconds. After that, he straightened and stretched out his hands to the fire, his fingers flickering the signal for 'iron'. More than one of the watchers shuddered. There were no burns on the young man's body, but there could so easily have been.

Finally he stood erect and defiant again, his hands clasped behind his back as if bound. He looked towards the edge of the circle, to where Vin and Cal were standing, poised to act out their part. Suddenly his arms jerked wide, as if his bonds had been cut. That was not all. He bent and drew his real boot-knife and made a single incision across his bare wrist.

Every man there knew the sign. The sign of a blood brother.

As if exhausted, Jess slumped to his knees. Vin and Cal raced across the hollow and picked him up between them, just as they had done on their horses. Moments later, the drama of the raid was finished in a whirling leap which brought them all facing the centre in a circle. Utter stillness fell, into which the first man to Vin's left began stamping softly, a rhythm like a rumble of thunder. Then the next took up the action with him and the next. The movement and sound raced round the circle, increasing as each man joined in, a mounting drum roll of triumph which ended the instant it reach Vin. There was a silent count of three and they all punched a clenched fist into the air, leaping as high as they could in a final affirmation of their oneness and their victory.

But the victory was not unalloyed. The enactment came to an end and men dropped back to the ground, their intense satisfaction and jubilant energy expressed and released, which would normally bring them all into relaxation. But they were not relaxed. The youngest member of their pack had shared with them a powerful and painful truth. Not one of them doubted the cost of their success now. Yet discipline prevailed. Their support was expressed in silence and the concerned gazes that followed as Vin finally achieved his aim and, still with Cal's assistance, got Jess as far as the doctor's cave.

"Do your worst!" he ordered Doc. "I don't want him setting foot outside until you reckon you've done all you can." He looked down at the blood-stained body, now shuddering from the effort of reliving what had happened. "And I don't care how hungry he is – keep him here till he's cleaned up and strapped up or whatever you're going to do to him – then he'll be allowed to eat!"

Cal said nothing. He just sat down on a ledge in the wall, folded his arms and more or less defied Vin to command him to do otherwise.

Vin gave him a long look. Under his breath, he muttered: "I'd rather deal with a Comanche war party than a couple of Harpers when they've set their mind on something!", but out loud he conceded: "Stay with him if you reckon you need to, but remember the rest of us exist as well."

A brief nod was all the assent he got. He quit the cave and left his young wolf-cub to those who might be able, in some measure, to heal his wounds. It was necessary not just for Jess himself, but because, somehow, somewhere along the line, the rest of the pack had come to regard him as the symbol of their hope and their luck.

 **#####**

Doc worked quietly, gently, but with inescapable firmness. His patient sat braced against his ministrations, his heart and soul obviously miles away from his body's needs. Cal watched him closely all the while. He'd had enough experience of Jess in this mood to know that he was best left alone until he wanted to communicate.

Presently the cleaning up was finished. Doc slathered a herbal salve, which would form a healing crust, over the lashes; there was no point in trying to strap them if Jess was to be able to breathe or move easily. Then he bandaged the cut across the young man's wrist. Finally, he took Jess's chin in a firm hand and washed the abrasions and bruises which had accumulated during the rough handling he had undergone. As he dabbed salve carefully on these wounds, he said with a wry grin: "If you're going to be charming the young ladies when this war's over, you need to take better care of your face!"

Jess just silently shook his head, as much as he was able with the grip on his chin.

"And," Doc continued, "if I've got the healing of you, you need to stop hiding your injuries!"

This last was true, but the reminder caused his patient to scowl and retort: "Ain't askin' you to mess about with me!"

Fortunately Doc had professional patience. "I am not messing about. Seriously, Jess, you know if you don't want to be a liability to the pack, you've got to take medical help when you need it! You're no use to us if you're a festering mass of wounds."

Jess wrenched free from his fingers, ducking his head and looking away as he always did to hide strong emotion. Cal held his breath. He knew what the movement meant. He didn't know what it portended.

Hitching a harsh breath, Jess muttered painfully: "Ain't no use to anyone. Just bring destruction."

Cal and Doc exchanged horrified glances over his head. There was such agony in his voice that they knew this was about more than his reckless disregard for his own physical pain. Cal felt again the searingly vivid link forged from much experience of being the only refuge and comfort Jess had ever been able to call his own.

Physical pain could never make his young cousin flinch or falter, but the deep anguish biting into him now had him bowed over his folded arms, his shoulders hunched and his whole being contracted as if he was trying to efface himself from sight.

"Come here," Cal whispered. He leaned over and gently pulled Jess back against his knees, wrapping his arms round him and praying that there would be no violent attempt to escape.

But Jess just raised his head and looked up, his eyes obsidian - hard and blackened with pain.

"I've killed him!"

"Who?" Cal felt a long shudder run through the thin, hard body in his arms.

"It was Dan, Cal! He was the sergeant. He let me go!" The words came tumbling out like deep, gasping sobs. "They'll kill him! They'll kill him because of me! First the little 'uns and now Dan! I ain't no good for anything but destroyin'!"

"Hush, now," Cal soothed as he rocked Jess softly. It seemed in this instant that he held a much younger child, not the battle-hardened, heart-scarred fifteen year old who had become a man through fire and blood and hideous terror. Just in this instant, Jess let himself be held, allowed himself to lean on someone else, accepted the physical support and comfort which he would have fiercely rejected if it had only been his body in agony.

Doc watched them intently, caught by the strange power of this relationship, deeper than cousins and far different from brothers. It seemed as if Cal could read Jess's mind and more than his mind. There was a shared spirit between them, not definable but deeply precious and strong.

Cal did not attempt any verbal comfort or offer any solution. He knew enough about their family history to understand when words and ideas were useless. He just kept rocking gently. Presently he felt Jess stiffen in his arms and almost pull away from the hug. Then a huge, shuddering breath shook every inch of his body. His next words were utterly implacable and calm: "I'm goin' to get him. They'll shoot him at dawn otherwise. That's what they do. I can't let him die."

"You'll do nothing without Vin's authority!" Cal's voice was calm but stern. It was the Second speaking now, not Jess's cousin.

"Can't stop me!" Jess did pull away then, leaping to his feet, every inch of his body bristling with defiance and rage.

Cal remained silent and just gave him a calm, steady look. Jess had been with the Ranulfiar long enough to know what bound them together. He knew that the security of the band and the success of every raid depended upon their absolute unity.

But the call of family was strong. Jess ducked his head and looked away again, repeating the only sign he ever gave of overwhelming emotion. He too remained silent.

"You need to eat." Doc broke the tension with simple practicality. "Can't do anything on an empty stomach, much less make decisions. Put this on. Then let's get down there before the rest of the pack eat everything in sight!" He handed Jess a clean shirt and, once he had donned it, led the way out of the cave.

Cal put an arm cautiously round Jess's shoulders and was not rejected. "I know what you have to do," he assured his cousin quietly, "but let's do it the right way, do it the Ranulfiar way."

Jess just nodded.

 **#####**

The Ranulfiar were gathering round the fire, settling after their triumph ritual, stretching weary limbs and gulping down welcome mugs of coffee. It really was coffee too, and not the poor substitute they had been putting up with for so long. The supply wagon must have been one intended for the officers of the Yankee troop.

Vin sat a little apart. Not because the men were afraid of him or found him unapproachable, but because they respected his need for quiet and thought. After all, it was his brains and planning which ensured, as far as was possible, their safety and the success of their raids. He was thinking about his Second. Cal had worked with him for an appreciable while before war broke out and they knew each other about as well as two very different human beings can.

 _He was remembering the first time Cal's sleep had been broken by the vivid, insistent and harrowing nightmare Jess was suffering. He remembered too Cal's instant reaction, leaping from his blankets in their camp, flinging his gear together and heading for the middle of Texas without a word of explanation. It was scarcely surprising that the dream-sharing left Vin baffled and angry. This first time neither of them even understood what was happening, only that Cal was under an overwhelming compulsion to find Jess and succour him. In the event, they arrived at what had been the ranch which Cal's uncle had managed and where Jess had been raised, only to find smouldering blackened ruins of the buildings and the neighbours in the process of burying the dead. There was no sign of Jess or any surviving siblings. They had never discovered why or what Cal was supposed to do as a result of the dream – he only knew he had to find Jess. This proved totally impossible._

 _It was a couple of years later, not long after the outbreak of war, that Jess was unexpectedly delivered in chains to Vin's troop of irregular raiders. Cal would not allow the subject to be raised then. He was unsure how or why he had known Jess's need and Jess himself seemed unaware of having summoned his cousin in this strange way. Besides, there was too much else to think of and there had been very little time for personal accounts – they were all too busy fighting a war._

Now Vin was acutely conscious of the tie between the two cousins and with the brother Jess had shown he had encountered in the enemy camp. He had no idea what a Texan would be doing serving with the Yankee army, but he knew his Harpers – the bond of blood was stronger than anything else. Such a situation would not easily be resolved without careful handling and thought. And sensible thought was not a Harper characteristic when one of their clan was threatened!

On the other hand, you could pretty well make a hundred percent accurate prediction that food would lure Jess back to the fold. Vin didn't like to think how the kid had been keeping body and soul together before he joined the raiders, if their rations, which had been short ever since, were so clearly a bounty to him. But it was no way to sustain a youngster at the peak of his growth and there was rarely enough. Now the savoury smell of the officers' food supply tickled the nostrils as well as stirring an ironical sense of amusement. Sure enough, when he looked up, he saw three familiar figures coming down from the doc's cave.

A soft murmur ran through the pack: greeting the youngest member, offering congratulations, thanks, and more than one joke about not letting them get their fair share of the food. Jess did not say much in reply, just grasped outstretched hands and exchanged hugs which took care not to press on his damaged back. His face was very still, closed down to an inscrutable mask with the kind of determination in every plane of it that Vin knew full well meant, whatever the problem, he was not going to be open to reason.

Nonetheless, the young man dropped down between him and Cal in his accustomed place. Someone passed him a mug of coffee and for the first time that night a vestige of relaxation ran through his taut body. Plates were being handed round the circle, with no bowing to precedence, but sharing until everyone had something.

"Don't eat it too fast!" Doc warned, knowing too well the effect of a heavy meal on a starving belly.

"Yes, mama!" Gabriel quipped and someone else joked: "Wolf-cub's already finished his, Doc."

"Yeah, wolves don't chew," another voice observed through a full mouth.

"You lot chew – slowly!" Doc was not going to back down and have to deal with the resultant bellyaches.

"Comme les hommes affamés - like starving men, 'oo struggle with the lobster's shell!" Raoul had been at Manassas Junction and witnessed just such a thing happening when Stonewall Jackson liberated the depot with his ragged, barefoot troops.

"Hey, where's the Rhine wine then?" That was Greg, Raoul's soul-mate and chief side-kick in matters culinary.

"Hah!" Raoul gave a derogatory sniff. "Lavasse almand? No bouquet worth smelling!"

"But just a sniff of it 'ud get us all drunk," Cal observed wryly. It didn't do to dwell on what they didn't have.

"Hell, I'm drunk on real coffee!" Bentley was the clown among them and proceeded to stagger round, threatening to upset several plates on his way.

"Lay off, Bentley! Sit down!" His comrades were laughing and exasperated at the same time. Bentley complied reluctantly, under threat of his neighbour finishing his share of the food.

Quiet fell, the kind of quiet that only real satisfaction of real hunger creates among the diners. It was some while before this was broken by replete sighs and the occasional belch.

"Sure beats stewed lizard and apple bread!" Greg murmured contentedly. Chuckles of agreement affirmed that their diet had suddenly improved spectacularly.

"Without lizard, you starve," observed a dry voice from above them.

Two shadowy figures stood at the lip of the hollow as suddenly as if they had materialised out of thin air. Vin's head slewed round before he could prevent his reaction. He ought to be used to this by now! Few indeed were those who could reach the mesa camp undetected by the guards, but these two – well, they were Apache and moved unseen as a matter of course. The Ranulfiar had got used to the unexpected way the two braves would appear out of nowhere and without any explanation, solely, it seemed, to impart to the raiders some of their survival skills. This done, they would disappear about their own business – until the next time.

This time, it was Kuruk who had spoken.

"Hell, Bear – with lizard we starve!" Greg retorted without missing a beat. "Next time, buffalo, huh?"

"Big men get buffalo," Taklishim, the other Apache, commented. "You get lizard."

This carefully contrived mock-insult had everyone rocking with suppressed laughter, as the two were welcomed into the circle and given their share of the food.

It was good to see them all relax, but too soon Vin knew it was time to bring them back to more serious matters. His hand flicked in the sign for clearing up and shortly after the dishes had been dumped in buckets of hot water and everyone round the fire was sitting still and alert, despite an undoubted desire just to fold up and sleep.

"Tomorrow's tasks." The Lieutenant looked slowly round the troop, receiving nods from those who had been given orders and readiness from those who would help them. "You know your working groups. Forward group under Marcus and Clint – mainly ammunition and dry supplies for the front line. Base group under Tom and Kielder – bulk of the food, and whatever ammunition the others can't carry, to the reserves. Raoul and Greg – sort and allocate the food. Leave us enough – but not too much."

This raised a general laugh.

"You reckonin' we'll get too fat to raid, Vin?" someone called.

"Nah, raidin's in our blood!" someone else responded. There was no doubt about the unanimous agreement with this statement and with the question that followed: "What about those Yankees? We goin' after them again?"

The question brought an expectant hush across the men.

Vin looked at their shining, eager eyes, set in faces drawn and haggard by the privations they had suffered and the sheer endurance needed to do what they had done. He shook his head. "No. Enough is enough. We've taught them not to poke their noses into our territory. Retreating to lick their wounds behind their own frontier will be a better lesson for the whole damn Yankee army than trouncing them again here." Besides, he knew their limitations. They had not enough man-power to move the supplies and attack the Yankees at the same time. And the supplies were more urgent than any victory.

A murmur of disappointment came from those who would be left in the camp – precious few of them, but every man a lethal weapon in his own right.

"I'm goin' back there." Jess's voice was a low growl which belied his years. He did not sound as if he cared what his commander ordered or whether anyone else was going to go with him. He was already on his feet, defying them to stop him.

A stillness caught and held the whole pack, their bodies ready for any fight, their hearts resonating with Jess's pain, their minds pleading for an outcome which did not betray the unity which bound them to each other and to their luck-bearer, their young wolf.

"Sit down!" Vin's voice snapped out with such assured command that Jess was caught by surprise and reacted automatically when he dropped back to the ground.

Once he had been obeyed, Vin caught and held Jess's eyes, whose blue gaze was still darkened almost to black by the pain he was carrying. "Share with us!" he ordered softly. "You know you have the right to be heard."

Jess was silent and not one of his comrades doubted that he was silent because he was unable to express the power and agony of what he had experienced.

"Tell us!" Cal urged equally softly.

"I … can't!"

"You can." Cal knew a little more than the others because he was so much closer to the family tragedy. "You know how … Spin the yarn … Tell the tale ..."

A quiver, a half-sigh, ran through Jess's lean frame. Then he settled back into his familiar space within the circle, sat cross-legged and seemed to move into some place far from the present –

 **#####**

Jess was looking out across the fire to the dark horizon. The flickering light showed that his face was an expressionless mask. In his eyes, tiny flames burned, reflecting not just the real fire but something else, something he was remembering. A shiver ran through him. He took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was flat, hollow, as if all the feeling had bled out of it; it was deliberate and almost unaccented, very different from his usual lively drawl.

 _There was a ranch. A place on the edge of nowhere and at the centre of everything._

 _There was a family. Travelled a long way to get to that ranch. The father, he knew the place. Knew it and loved it. And the mother too. So they came and raised a family who could survive and thrive._

 _There were_ _a whole tribe, older kids and small kids, boys and girls, brothers, sisters and cousins -_ He paused a moment and his gaze flicked to Cal. The listeners grinned a little to themselves, knowing how close the two of them were - _and every one of them as wild as any of the mustangs they used to go out huntin'. There were brothers, uncles, cousins and hired hands, locals, drifters, even Mexican drovers and their families – a whole ranchful of people in the huge emptiness._

 _The father was the range-boss, the one they all obeyed. Never backed down from danger, never let someone else take a risk, never failed to stand by his friends whatever it cost. He was a hard man, demanding and impatient and quick to anger. He expected obedience – from men and from children._

 _He had six sons. And the middle son had a temper as short as the father and took his own decisions, his own risks. And he wouldn't back down. Never. No matter how many beatings he got._

 _The older boys tried to shield him from the beatings, but he never paid any heed. He could stand alone. There were three elder brothers. Matt, the one with the healing touch, left to train as a doctor. He went east. The family heard he'd sailed for Europe, to learn the latest doctoring there. The next two, Tom and Dan, quit the ranch together looking for their own place and their own way. Last word of them – they were lost at Ojo Caliante."_

His listeners were puzzled. "Thought Carson made sure the cavalry won that one?"

Jess's eyes gleamed with more pain and Cal gave a laugh, half appreciative, half ironic.

Jess said: "They were with the Apache."

Kuruk said something in his own language, then repeated it in Spanish: "Un hermano de sangre es para toda la vida."

Jess flashed him an utterly loyal look. Seeing this interaction, Vin suddenly realised why the two Apache had chosen to join the raiders, to the inestimable benefit of their skills. Cal murmured again: "I'll tell you someday how Zak Harper trained his sons."

" _There was nothing more heard. No news. All three of the elder brothers, gone beyond recall._

 _The middle son became the eldest. But it did not make things easier between him and the father or stop the struggle of their wills._

 _It was like that at the end. The night of fire and fighting. The household asleep. The night still and dark as pitch. Suddenly the roar of flames and the stench of burning and the startled cries of those taken unaware. The shadows concealed cruel, evil men, bent on greed and destruction. Other outbuildings began to blaze. More people fell. The yard seemed to be full of bodies, not one of them moving._

 _The eldest, as he was now, woke just like everyone else, roused by the sound of the flames. It was his business, his right to defend the family and the home. He ran from the house and, being smaller than the adults, he was not hit. Against the flame-light of the burning buildings, he could see the father risking himself willingly to defend everyone else. But he was alone, outnumbered, surrounded._

 _His last command to his son was simple: "Take the others and run!"_

 _But the boy defied him once again. He was too proud to run. He knew he could fight as well as any man. He would not let the father stand alone. So he poured out shots until he ran out of ammunition. He went on firing until the father fell._

 _By that time, the house was on fire. His mother had fallen on the doorstep, a rifle still in her hand. The older ones, the sister and the younger boy, they managed to get out. But the little ones … they were too small … too weak to escape. The house burned …like the fires of hell. There was nothing left for the three to do but to run … to hide … to leave the looters to their … foul business!_

His voice had been getting slower, more ragged, as if he was forcing every word out and every word was a knife in his throat.

Silence greeted the story. Silence that knew the horror. Silence that understood the pain. They were all remembering the second of Jess's summoning nightmares, which had dragged Cal from his sleep in their camp the night after they had come across precisely such a scene – the burnt-out, blackened ruins of what had once been someone else's home. But he had never told the full tale before, not even to Cal.

After a minute or so, Jess concluded: " _The boy found a gun, stole a horse, rode away. Always following the trail, however cold it became. Always hunting. Never forgetting. Learnt to survive in some bad places. Killed the first one he caught up with. Saw another put in jail. Then the war came … but he ain't forgettin'!"_

No-one spoke until Cal asked quietly: "Where did you take them? Where are Fran and Johnny?"

Jess gave him a look of total astonishment, as if the answer was obvious. "To the People, of course! Where else would we go? Johnny'd just come back. I knew they'd be taken in."

Kuruk gave a grunt of agreement. The bitter truth - ' _all the rest of the family were dead or far away' -_ hung unspoken in the air.

Cal looked at Vin, the two of them realising now why they had arrived at the remains of the ranch to find no-one there except distant neighbours and why Jess's first dream-sharing had been so utterly compelling.

His next words made the present dilemma just as inescapably real. "I killed the little 'uns. I can't let Dan die too. He's back there in that camp. He let me go. Saved my life. It'll cost him his own, 'less I do something!"

Every eye in the pack turned at once to Vin. It was his decision. He felt resolution of each and every one of those who would not be delivering the supplies. They had been prepared to make another attack on the Yankees. Still more would they give everything to such a raid, knowing the life of the Wolf-cub's brother depended upon it. And was there any way in hell he was going to persuade Cal not to be part of rescuing another Harper?

Yet he did not speak immediately. He took several minutes to review his observations of the layout and dispositions of the Yankee camp, even though these had been made at a break-neck speed as he galloped through to pick up Jess. He was in no doubt that security would have doubled, tripled, by now. And he was in no doubt either about where the essential intelligence which had aided their raids had come from. Or the fate now of the man who had given it through the secret trail-sign they had perfected, thanks once again to their Apache companions.

But he did not hurry. There were many hours of the night left and the Yankees would not dare strike camp until daylight. To return there would take far less time than the convoluted route they had followed to conceal the trail to their present hideout.

After due consideration, he said calmly: "We can't mount another direct attack. It would make them execute him at once. We need to go in like ghosts, like shadows. No-one must hear or see us take him out. Ideas?"

He was not at all surprised to find the first reaction was a frenzied and heart-felt hug from Jess. The boy would have defied him anyway, but was clearly overwhelmed by the knowledge that he would have the support and backing of the Ranulfiar brotherhood, which he so desperately needed.

"Three, maybe four men, at the most," Cal stated. "If they're going to get anywhere near, the risk of being spotted increases with the number."

"I don't think anyone here is worried about risk!" Vin observed dryly, earning a murmur of agreement from the band. "But you're right. And it has to be those with the best skills of concealment, the best knowledge of how to move unseen."

"You ain't leavin' me out!" Jess told him roundly.

"As if I'd dare!" Vin reached over and ruffled his hair affectionately. "Besides, you're probably more skilled than most of us." He knew this from previous raids, but he was beginning to get an inkling about why.

"Diversion?" Keilder suggested from the other side of the circle.

Vin shook his head. "They aren't going to fall for that one again. At the slightest sign we're around, they'll either kill him or at least strengthen the guard. Stealth is the only way."

"You must take medical supplies," Doc put in. He saw the realisation of the need for this dawn on their faces. "Yeah, they aren't going to give him a nice, quiet night now, are they?" He rose abruptly to his feet and headed for his cave to assemble what he could.

"So, a small group – no direct action – getting in and out unseen and with minimum disturbance," Vin summed up. Then he added teasingly, to lighten the tension: "In which case, you're out, Samson – you'll just want to cut a swathe right through them."

"Too true!" the blacksmith agreed laughingly, knowing that his strength _was_ his strength. "Y'need someone skinnier!"

"Like the rest of us?" the man next to him jibed.

"Lemme go, boss!" That was Hammer. "Ain't no-one gonna see me in the dark!"

Vin grinned and there were more chuckles. Hammer was not exactly skinny, despite being gaunt from the deprivation they all shared. His huge size made him every bit as powerful as Samson, but he could move like a floating feather. "Maybe. But only if you keep your mouth shut!" It was a familiar joke and accepted as such.

Hammer laughed aloud, his white teeth flashing in his black face. "Can keep m'mouth shut alright, boss. Not like the Wolf-cub!"

Vin nodded in acknowledgement, knowing Jess would not take offence at this, any more than Hammer had at the joke about him. He waited to see who else was willing, ready to judge their suitability with ruthless practicality.

Taklishim rose from where he had been sitting cross-legged in a single, fluid movement. Then he spoke for himself and his companion, decisive and unemotional: "Wolf-cub raids with us. Also the dark one."

Vin nodded again. He knew the Apache were past masters of secret attacks and counted it a high honour to raid the enemy without them even being aware of what was happening. If Kuruk and Taklishim were willing to take Hammer along, he was not going to object. Jess's ties to the two warriors were far closer than Vin had originally understood. If they chose to go with Jess on this raid, it was because they respected his skills as well as his fighting abilities and his loyalty to his kin.

"Very well. Make your preparations."

"Could do with more'n a knife," Jess pointed out. "They've got my gun!"

"Don't waste time trying to get it back," Vin ordered. "You know we can arm you."

"Tonight knife, not gun," Kuruk corrected, warning of the need for silence in this venture.

The four chosen ones stood up, dark shadows silhouetted for a moment against the firelight. Then they moved swiftly to prepare their horses. Vin heaved an inward sigh of relief: Cal had not insisted on being part of the raid. As he lifted his eyes to meet those of his Second, he realised what this had cost his friend. Despite the deep bond with Jess, Cal was prepared to stand back, to bow to the superior skills of the Apache and to their shared experience with Jess. And more than this, to yield to his cousin's need and right to achieve his brother's rescue on his own.

 **#####**

Jess stood for a moment in the shadows, leaning against Spirit's warm side. Shock and guilt and pain and relief were coursing through him like a raging torrent. He had never imagined he would see any of his brothers again, not this side of death, anyway. He could still hardly believe that brief glimpse had been true. An older Dan. Shaven-headed. His face lined with the marks of deep grief. But the same face. Resolute. Unmoved by danger. Fiercely loyal. Loving.

Jess felt as if he had forgotten what that love was like. He'd always been closer to Cal than anyone else, though neither of them knew why. He had never doubted the love of his family, but when the others rode away he felt deserted, left out in an empty place between his older and his younger siblings. And after the fire, for a long time, he had no capacity to love at all.

As it was, the war was actually probably the saving of him. It cut short his private vengeance. Gave him some sense of proportion. Reconnected him with the love he had once known. War was like a terrible strait-jacket, not least for someone like Jess, who hated being given orders about anything. But that very insubordination had earned him a place in Vin's Ranulfiar and the support not just of his beloved cousin, but of a whole band of new brothers.

Now, with their aid, he must liberate Dan and in some small measure repay the debt of guilt which burdened his soul.

 **#####**

The preparations of the rescue party took little time. The horses were only haltered, to minimise tell-tale sounds from their harness. The Apache were naturally clad for the venture, but Jess and Hammer discarded their hats, shirts and boots in order to move more stealthily. Later, closer to the Yankee camp, they'd all cover themselves with earth and grass, camouflage local to their target. It was just as well that Doc had taken such care to seal Jess's wounds – although they would have deterred him the slightest! They all carried rifles, but these would be left behind with the horses when they made their final approach. Hammer had the medical supplies, which they hoped against hope would not be needed, in a small knapsack. Vin checked that they all had the clearest picture possible of the layout of the camp, even though there was no guarantee about where they would find Dan. Nevertheless, find him they must.

The Ranulfiar stood silent, intent, respecting the task and the men who would carry it out. Vin gave both Jess and Hammer a formal handshake and saluted their guides. Cal gave Jess a final hug of parting. Then, like a breath of wind moving across the dark grasses, they were gone.

 **#####**

The Yankee camp was quiet. Its boundaries were also as brightly lit as was possible with the minimal fuel supplies available. Fires had been lighted all round the perimeter, although the rest was dark, even the central double row of tents, the little street which gave the illusion of civilisation and security in the midst of an inimical wilderness.

The four raiders exchanged feral grins. Although the fires might deter some attackers and show up anyone unwary enough to cross within their radiance, they actually blinded those watching by their light to anything which went on in the dark beyond. Still more, the light revealed the extent of the camp and the location of the guards. At least, this was probably true, but none of them were so naïve as to assume that the light was only working in their favour. They still had to proceed with the uttermost caution and skill.

Kuruk touched Hammer on the arm and hand-signalled Jess, indicating they should remain, for the moment, hidden behind an outcrop of rocks with the horses. Then he and Taklishim disappeared in opposite directions. There was no more sight or sound of them than if they had melted into the invisible wind.

The two left behind continued to keep watch between the concealing boulders. The illuminated camp remained quiet. Jess knew the Apache would circle it completely, taking in all the defences and familiarising themselves with the layout and the parts where concealment was possible. He knew this was vital and made himself employ the hard-won patience he had learned to master in such a demanding school. In a hunt or a raid, impatience was stupid and often deadly. But it did not come naturally to him, least of all now. He envied how easily Hammer remained calm, but knew that his companion's stalwart serenity and endurance was born of much suffering. Suffering which would have driven Jess to furious, violent and probably futile resistance. But Hammer had come through an even harder school than any man Jess knew, released from a death sentence for killing a brutal overseer, to swell the depleted ranks of the Confederate army and considered too violent to risk in a regular troop. Yet Jess had never ever seen him act with anything other than good humoured tranquillity.

As suddenly as they had departed, the two braves were back. Not a word was spoken. With signs and drawing in the dust, they conveyed all they had both learnt about the camp. In particular, they had identified the Captain's tent, the most obvious place to start their investigation, and a route to it. It was a location Jess could have found from memory, but no raid took place just relying on recollection when fresh intelligence was possible.

This time there was no question of Jess staying behind. Instead Kuruk remained with Hammer. The new partnership began their approach flat on their bellies, their skin and minimal clothing liberally covered with dirt and debris. Jess followed literally on his leader's heels, his whole body emulating every nuance of each move the Apache made, just as he had been taught.

Not for nothing was Taklishim named 'the grey one'. He could move like a ripple in the faded grass, like the tawny dust drifting on the wind. His sinuous body mimicked the contours of the ground and blended with every scrap of cover. Fortunately Jess still had almost the flexibility of a child and his kinaesthetic memory had not forgotten what he had learned when he was one. His concentration was absolute.

So they passed between two fires some way north of their objective and began to worm their way along to the Captain's tent. It really wasn't that hard. There was plenty of shadow and, besides the natural contours of the ground, there were numerous objects fully able to conceal a stout man, much less a couple of lean figures who would both have made a wraith look well fed. Finally they were lying hard up against the canvas wall, able to hear everything but see very little other than the shadows moving against the light within.

The discussion already going on inside the tent was a tense one and fraught with the potential for serious disagreement.

"We've done our best, sir. He won't speak."

"You have not done your best, Sergeant! He has not spoken." The Captain's voice was unmistakable to Jess, who had been on the receiving end of its orders. "What did you do, cut his tongue out by mistake?" The sarcasm was laced with impotent fury at being denied the information they needed so badly to convict a traitor.

"We don't have any proof he's actually got anything to tell," a voice pointed out reasonably. The tenor sounded familiar, but, for the moment, Jess could not place it.

"He let the prisoner escape!" Blake was adamant. "Why would he do that if he wasn't a damn spy?"

"We did pick him up unconscious. He couldn't have hit himself." Whoever was reporting their actions sounded hesitant and unwilling to take any risk to themselves. But someone else added: "He was knocked out cold. Enough to scramble any man's brains."

"So even if he does speak, he may not remember, not know anything." It was the reasonable voice again. Jess recalled it now. The one who had shouted out in protest when the Captain had ordered him to be beaten.

"Not know anything?" The Captain's tone was dangerous and would have warned anyone who knew him better.

But the one who spoke with reason did not seem to be daunted. "Two Rebel riders carried off the prisoner. That much is confirmed by the report of those who witnessed it, as I did myself. If they knocked out Sergeant Guerra in doing so, it seems unlikely he was a spy."

"Gerrer is a damn Southerner!" the Captain snarled. "The only one in this troop. Who else would pass information?"

"There is still no proof that he was doing so." The reasonable one was not going to be deflected from the truth.

"Not yet, Lieutenant, not yet. But there will be when he speaks." There was a sound of footsteps and the clatter of a chair moving, as if the Captain had just flung himself into it. "Sergeant, apply the branding irons. Now!"

"We already have, sir." The voice of the sergeant who had spoken first betrayed his distaste for torturing his fellow officer. He had already pointed out that it was, in any case, ineffective.

"Nonsense! I heard nothing."

"There was nothing to hear, sir. He didn't make a sound the whole time." There was admiration as well as frustration in the man's tones.

Blake swore and the chair crashed to the ground as he leapt up in anger. "I hate to call you incompetent, Sergeant Taylor, but do I have to do everything myself to achieve efficiency?"

"Taylor was most efficient." It was the reasonable lieutenant speaking again. His voice subtly conveyed his distaste and disapproval of the whole proceeding without giving the slightest cause for an accusation of insubordination.

"He's outside, sir. You can see for yourself what we … tried."

Jess reached out and felt for Taklishim's hand. He quickly pressed out a signal: _moving forward, wait._ There was no hesitation. Taklishim signalled back: _go ahead._

Inch by desperate inch, Jess slid along the base of the tent, worming his way round the tent pegs pinning it down, sliding under the guys, arriving eventually at a point where he could go no further without actually coming out into the open. He raised his head cautiously, closing his eyelids so that his gaze was narrowed to a slit. You might blend totally with the earth you lay on, but nothing gave away your presence like light reflecting from your eyes.

The open space before the tent was surprisingly crowded, but Jess's attention was only for the body of the man slumped on his knees, his head bowed almost to the ground. The firelight and torches left no doubt about what had happened to him. His skin was lacerated with many lashes and blackened patches showed where the most sensitive parts of his body had been savagely burned. A soldier was bending over him. For a moment Jess thought he were inflicting further torture, but then he saw the damp white cloth smudged with dark streaks in his hand. He was attempting to wipe away some of the blood and cool the raging burns.

Jess's heart gave an unexpected lurch. He had been prepared for the torture, but not for the compassion. It was the same feeling he got when he heard the voice of reason from that unknown lieutenant, so much saner, so much more caring than he had any right to expect from an enemy. Could there be a shared spirit between them, something that might deepen, become precious and strong? The feeling made him wonder, for a split second, why on earth they were all fighting each other …

Then the Captain erupted from the tent and surveyed the scene with the full force of his wrath and his authority.

"What do you think you are doing!" His voice rang out like a lash and the one who had been tending to the prisoner froze in mid-action. Jess caught just a glint of the firelight on golden hair as the man leapt to his feet, before he himself flattened face down again and merged his body with the ground.

"Attention, soldier!" It was the judicious officer again, commanding this time, but not intimidating. "Account for your actions."

"Sir! Prisoner collapsed. Without attention, could not speak to give information, sir!"

"Very perceptive, corporal." Jess felt the Captain stamp impatiently to examine the prisoner. He felt the shift of weight as the prisoner's head was jerked upward by a rough hand and the thud as he slumped forward again when released. "However, you do not seem to have revived him. Dismissed!"

"Sir!" The sound of booted feet retreating reverberated through the ground. Somehow Jess felt that those feet were not at all happy about leaving the prisoner at the mercy of his tormentors.

"I grow tired of this affair." The Captain contrived to sound bored, but underneath this superficial impression, his voice was filled with frustration and desire for vengeance. "We can ill afford to waste our energies on this miserable traitor. Let us rest. But let us ensure he does not!"

The ensuing pause was so deadly quiet Jess dared to lift his head the merest fraction so he could see through the trampled grass. His line of sight showed him the gleaming boots of the Captain, pacing impatiently back and forth as he thought – but he already knew that through the vibrations in the earth. Beyond, he could see lots more boots, but only one pair daring to stand still and firm next to the prisoner. He was willing to bet this was the compassionate lieutenant, but once again he dared not look up to see his face.

"I think he can spend the night," the Captain pronounced coldly, "in irons. Beyond the hospital tent, there is a dead tree. It has a convenient branch at just the right height to chain a man so that he can neither stand nor rest. Do it! And make sure you set our sharpest guards and keep the fires well built up. We don't want anyone dropping off to sleep or dropping in."

"You expect the Rebels to come for him, sir?" Sergeant Taylor asked.

The Captain laughed. "With the perimeter of the camp fully illuminated? I somehow doubt it, Sergeant! No, it is sympathisers within that I fear."

Jess could almost feel the scorching glare the Captain shot at his subordinates, but he still did not look up.

"Make sure I do not have any reason to search out further traitors!" The boots stamped back into the tent, with a final command flung over his shoulder: "Hang him in chains! Do it!"

There was a flurry of action as the men hastened to obey. Iron fetters rang out their unforgiving song. There was a murmur of conversation, concern perhaps. The sound of breath being released in a deep sigh.

Under cover of their activity, Jess slid back until he was lying next to Taklishim.

They stared at each other.

Iron bonds and an exposed location and brilliant illumination and hair-trigger guards. Their chances of liberating Dan had just been reduced to near impossibility.

.

* * *

.

NOTES:

If you are familiar with other stories of mine, e.g. _Father's Night,_ you will recognise that in this one Jess basically tells the same story in the same way in almost the same words. This is how storytelling works as a mnemonic (try kidding a kid that you didn't just miss out a page of their favourite bedtime story!). At this stage, however, the relationships are much rawer and the grief more immediate than they are when he tells the same story at a later stage in life, and so it is rougher and less sensitive.

 _Climbing Horses –_ 'Their journey hither had been a perilous one to me, unused as I was to the rocky paths between narrow gorges and over masses of broken stone, which their Indian ponies climbed with readiness and ease. I was led to remark the difference between these ponies and American horses, who could only struggle to find their foothold over such craggy ground, while the ponies led the way, picking their steps up almost perpendicular steeps with burdens on their backs.' _Narrative of my captivity among the Sioux Indians,_ Fanny Kelly, 1871

 _The Battle of Ojo Caliante Canyon,_ _1854_ – included to give some historical roots to the story, although it is a little early in the Harper family time-line. The battle actually does not appear to have resulted in so many casualties that a couple of Texans would not be noticed. But note that Jess only says they _heard_ Tom and Dan died and that they were _with the Apache_ , not that they were fighting. Obviously, as it turns out, they didn't and they weren't.

In August of 1862, Stonewall Jackson's men raided a Union supply depot at Manassas Junction, Virginia. A Rebel lieutenant wrote, ' _To see a starving man eating lobster-salad and drinking Rhine wine, bare-footed and in tatters, was curious.'_ (Cooking for the Cause, 5-6).


	3. Chapter 3

**Encounter in Shadows**

Jantallian

.

' _A friend loveth at all times and a brother is born for adversity.'_ Proverbs 17:17

.

 **The Third Encounter**

.

 _It was next to impossible to know what was happening!_ One moment all attention was focused on the interrogation of the young Confederate prisoner in front of the Captain's tent. The next, the shadows all around the edges of the camp were suddenly alive with Rebel yells. A bugle shrilled, splitting the night, and was cut off in mid-note.

Lieutenant Mort Cory issued an abrupt order to the small group of men under his command, which kept them together poised and ready for action, unlike the rest of the Union troops. After a split second of stunned immobility, the massed ranks, who had been watching the punishment of the prisoner, broke and scattered haphazardly, each man acting as he saw best. Although their intention was the defence of the security of their base, without orders and leadership their efforts were in vain. Cory could see this instinctive reaction was going to result in chaos and probably more casualties.

Captain Blake yelled for his horse and started for the lines, his orderly running ahead of him. But he was too late. His voice was overwhelmed by the pounding of hooves and his way cut off as loose horses thundered like a storm-cloud through the camp. The attackers had made sure there would be no mounted pursuit when they withdrew, at least not in the immediate aftermath.

For Cory was shrewdly sure they would withdraw almost at once, despite the level of mayhem they were generating. Flames were roaring where several tents had been set on fire. As men were diverted to deal with the conflagration and its threat to the munitions stores, a sudden rumble of wheels suggested that at least one wagon was being driven off in haste. He ran his eye over his men, the five of them who had accompanied him but remained together on the edge of the watching crowd. The sixth, Matthew Sherman, must still be somewhere near the hospital tent, where he had gone earlier to support his injured comrades. The men had drawn their guns, but were still disciplined and waiting for orders.

The trouble was, which order to give? Lieutenant Cory was intelligent and experienced and he knew when he had been out-manoeuvred. Whoever had loosed the picket lines and set the horses stampeding through the camp would, by now, have melted into the dusk. Those who had fired the tents would be long-gone. Someone had driven at least one wagon away, but in the confusion would already have got clear of the camp. He looked back at the Captain's tent. Sergeant Guerra was still holding the prisoner in a tight arm-lock ready for torture, faithful to the orders he had been given. Cory was tempted to countermand those orders. The boy had suffered enough and was surprisingly showing no sign of trying to escape, despite the nearness of his comrades.

But there were more urgent needs. The rest of the supply wagons must be secured just in case the Confederate raiders got over-confident. He didn't expect this. Whoever had planned the attack had made sure it was carried out with total speed and precision; in less time than seemed possible, the raiders had struck and vanished again. Nevertheless, the supplies which had not been stolen were essential and gave a clear objective to fight for.

"Follow me!" He led his men swiftly towards the remaining wagons.

 **#####**

As Lieutenant Cory had rightly judged, the raid resulted in chaos throughout the camp. The enemy seemed to materialise from the earth and vanish into the shadows with consummate ease. It reminded him of one of those old legends – a single body with many heads and limbs, all acting with a single purpose. Random shots were loosed off into the dusk by the baffled Union soldiers and the chances of being hit their own side were considerable, especially as Cory's contingent had not yet had the chance to get into uniform. Men sought their comrades, standing back to back in defence, their eyes staring wildly but seeing nothing. Dust, smoke and shadows clouded the vision and seemed to cloud the mind too.

When the time came to assess the damage, the officers found a number of the guards had been knocked unconscious with such efficiency that it took them half the night to recover. There were several serious injuries, caused mainly by attempts to stop the hurtling wagons and put out the raging fires. There were knife-wounds and bullets probably fired by their own side, since it seemed that, in this instance, the raiders were not interested so much in reducing enemy numbers, but in getting safely away with supplies which they must badly need. Being gathered together round the prisoner had, in some respects, worked in favour of the Union, because there was, ironically, safety in numbers.

In confirmation of the raiders' intentions, the tents and the gear they contained, which burnt to the ground, were merely a diversion. Two wagons, one containing ammunition and the other food supplies, had disappeared into the darkness. So had most of the cavalry mounts. The prisoner had been swept up by a couple of riders who charged through the camp at a flat-out gallop, causing Cory momentarily to applaud their horsemanship before they vanished into the wreaths of smoke and dust which covered their escape like a protective cloak. The attackers had disappeared with equal ease and, for all that they had acted with supreme co-ordination, they seemed to retreat and run for hiding like so many individuals. Just so did a wolf pack use the strength and co-operation of individuals to act in unison and achieve a common goal. Licking their wounds, both literal and metaphorical, the men were calling them 'ghost wolves' _._ _Maybe they were right,_ Cory reflected, _since the opponents he had seen were lean and spare enough to be phantoms._

Eventually some form of order was restored to the camp. Weary and dispirited men returned to their tents. Those who had lost everything were taken in by comrades. To make sure there was no chance in future turmoil of being shot by their own side, Lieutenant Cory had his men follow his example and put on their uniforms. He saw that they had all serviced their weapons before they rested or took a turn mounting guard over their quarters. It was worrying that young Sherman was still unaccounted for, but he could not instigate a search immediately. Instead, he checked on the condition of the men in the tents closest to his contingent, suddenly vividly reminded of Sergeant Guerra's methodical, thorough inspection after the battle earlier in what seemed to be an extraordinarily long day. The last he had heard of the sergeant was Captain Blake yelling for him to keep a close guard on the prisoner. He wondered wryly whether the good Captain had ever found a horse to mount.

As if his thought had conjured them, a string of horses emerged from the dark, led by his missing man, Corporal Sherman. They saluted each other and the young soldier reported somewhat breathlessly: "The raiders let loose the main lines, but ours were hobbled, so they didn't run far. Thought I'd better bring them back here in case we need them, Mor … sir!"

The older man gave him a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. "Well done, son. Keep them here, out front, where we can see them. I'm going to report to the Captain."

"Yes, sir." The young man saluted again.

"And, Slim –" The nick-name came naturally. The tall, muscular and powerful blonde was a long way from his skinny childhood self, but somehow it had stuck.

"Sir?"

"Tell the others to be ready to ride out in pursuit. We may be the only ones left with mounts."

"Yes, sir."

Mort Cory smiled as he strode away in the direction of the Captain's tent. Formality was not normal between the two of them, for he had known the boy pretty well from birth, but both of them recognised and appreciated the need for discipline. Slim was natural officer material and Mort hoped it would not be long before he could be promoted. If he had known how this wish was to be fulfilled he might, like a character in an old tale, have realised he should have wished more cautiously.

Appreciation of the need for discipline was less evident the further he got from his own tent. Outside Captain Blake's quarters, he found the irate and impotent young officer, angrily pacing back and forth while his subordinates hung indecisively on his erratic commands. Only one of the troop's original lieutenants remained on duty; the other had been seriously injured trying to halt one of the flying wagons. Lieutenant Cory paused in the shadow of the tent, unwittingly standing in the earlier footprints of Sergeant Guerra. He surveyed the scene.

His attention was immediately drawn to the fact that there was a body on the ground, though no-one seemed to be taking much notice of it. A frown creased Cory's weathered face, dispersing the natural laughter lines which characterised it. _Why was nobody attending to the man?_ He strode forward and bent over the body, which was lying face down on the blood-stained turf.

Fearing the worst, he reached out and felt the man's pulse. It was slow and slightly erratic, but he was obviously alive, despite all the blood. Cory rolled the man gently over on to his back. Shock knifed through him. It was Sergeant Guerra. His shirt front was soaked in blood and his hands, clutching unconsciously into fists, were stained with it. Even his face was smeared with red, though Cory figured this probably came mostly from the grass. And the blood, he realised as he recollected foregoing events, was probably not Guerra's own. The prisoner had bled freely after the lashing Guerra had administered and the sergeant had been ordered to hold him fast afterwards for branding. Lieutenant Cory grimaced in distaste at the assigning of such a duty to any man. But it was immaterial now. The prisoner was gone and presumably Guerra had been knocked out in the process. The sergeant's jaw was swollen and a huge bruise was spreading rapidly across his face. Blood dripped from his nose and from a split lip.

Cory looked up, intending to summon help to get the man to the hospital tent. His movement caught Blake's eye.

"Leave him be," the Captain ordered harshly.

"Sir! He's been unconscious for some time and he is still bleeding. He needs medical attention."

"He'll get attention soon enough!" Blake promised. "He can stay where he is for now."

"And how long is 'for now'?" Cory demanded as forcefully as he dared. "How long do you expect him to be left here in this condition?"

"Until I'm ready to question him!" the Captain snapped.

"In his condition, you can ask, but he won't be able to answer," Cory pointed out. It was an unfortunate choice of words, echoing as it did the Rebel prisoner's defiance earlier in the evening.

"Oh, we'll wake him up soon enough!" Blake sneered. "He'll be only too glad to talk!" It was another promise of the worst possible kind.

It was difficult to intimidate someone from a kneeling position, but somehow Cory simply radiated his repudiation of Captain Blake's intentions. He could not defy his superior's orders without very good reason, but he refused to leave an injured man just lying without attention. He loosened the sergeant's shirt and pulled off his bandanna, using it to mop some of the blood from Guerra's face. There was no water anywhere near and the medical orderlies were fully occupied with the newly injured and burned. Cory put his hand on the shoulder of the wounded young man, the gentle pressure giving a simple message of support. He thought Guerra's eyelids flickered for a brief moment, but then nothing. There was no sense in provoking the Captain's rage further.

That rage was now directed elsewhere as the Captain realised the disordered aftermath of the raid into which his troop had sunk.

"Those damn Rebs didn't come out of nowhere! Who posted the guard?"

There was a pause and boots shuffled in the dust. "Guerra, sir!" someone finally admitted. After all, he'd done it many times before without incident, but they knew they are going to be blamed.

"I knew it! He set us up! He made sure there'd be no alert! You let him get away with it!"

"It seems unlikely he bribed the men to abandon their posts." It was that reasonable voice again, coming from somewhere near the Captain's boots.

"The guards were the ones injured and knocked out, sir," the other sergeant, Sergeant Taylor, pointed out with considerable daring.

"He set them up!" Blake stood over Cory and the injured sergeant, his face a mask of fury. Suddenly his booted foot thudded into Guerra's ribs, as he kicked him, then turned on his heel to deal with the present crisis. "I want those horses rounded up now. What the hell are the scouts doing?"

"I've sent men after them, sir," the chief scout replied, obviously trying to control his own anger. "It is night. They won't run for long."

"You'd better be sure and find them, Stevens. We aren't going to get far on foot!" Blake sounded distinctly uneasy, as if he had just realised that they were deep in a wilderness commanded by their enemy and far from any fort or supporting forces.

"And get out there and find where those Rebels are hiding!"

Stevens' face remained impassive, but his thoughts could be guessed. They had not been able to track the raiders by daylight, so pursuit at night was going to be useless and it would be impossible to cover the required territory without horses.

Despite his increasingly irrational behaviour, Blake seemed to realise the need to send out a mounted patrol. "Are there no horses left in camp? Were they all in the lines?"

"The Wyoming detachment, sir," someone put in quickly. "Theirs were hobbled and they've still got them."

Lieutenant Cory got quietly to his feet, anticipating the next order. Sure enough, Blake turned on him. "Make yourself useful, Lieutenant! Find a mount for Stevens and get your men out there. Make sure you round up those loose horses and then find out where the hell they've taken those wagons. They can't vanish into nowhere. Even Stevens ought to be able to follow something as big as a wagon!"

With this final insult, the Captain waved them both away. Cory was loathe to leave the injured sergeant still unattended and at the mercy of a man who regarded him with the contempt and hatred he could see clearly in Blake's face. But other than mutiny, there was no option. As he led Stevens back to the horses, Cory heard Blake's voice ring out in more orders:

"I want every man out guarding the perimeter! Circle the remaining wagons! And make sure the fires have plenty of fuel!"

 **#####**

Lieutenant Cory's search party halted at the narrow mouth of the battle-scarred valley and surveyed the trail before them. Providing a horse for Stevens meant that Big Malcolm had to be left behind, but he was well suited to helping with the heavy work needed to restore order to the campsite. That left Harris and Jenkins, both of them experienced woodsmen, but whose skills were not best employed on this terrain, the Gautier twins and young Sherman – all of them eager to see action, but cautiously aware conditions were far from ideal. It was a very small party indeed to be tracking a band of at least thirty seasoned Confederates over their home territory, but neither Cory nor his men were daunted. The plunder would be less easy to hide than the men who had taken it.

The tracks of the two wagons were clear, even by starlight. They led to the flats bordering the river and their speed had obviously increased considerably after this. There was no doubt they had been driven skilfully and with a clear purpose in mind. At the river, however, it was more difficult to guess what that purpose was. There were no tracks emerging on the far side. This obviously meant they had driven either upstream or down – there was no way to guess which.

Stevens was staring at the tracks leading to the river bank. Cory raised an interrogative eyebrow. Immediately, the scout responded: "After the wagons, there were two horses. Up to this point," he indicated the edge of the river, "their paces are even but both favourin' the inner side. Here –" he waved a hand at the prints, "we get a pair of boots and then one horse carryin' a heavier load than the other."

Cory nodded. "They picked up the prisoner between two horsemen." _Superb horsemen!_ his impartial mind wanted to admit. "After carrying him between them this far, they must have decide it was better to travel with him riding double on one of the horses."

Stevens' face lit up with an appreciative grin. "I don't know about you, Lieutenant, but I'd pick this pair for bein' in command, or somewhere near it. If I've to place my bet, as opposed to tryin' to pursue every red herring they've laid, I'd say the best chance is to follow the tracks of these two riders and ignore the rest."

Cory nodded again. "Let's do it!" He detailed the twins to round up the loose horses, who had spread out to take advantage of the rich grazing along the river, and drive them back into the valley. Once the herd were running in the right direction, they would stop at the camp. The twins could catch up fairly soon, since the trackers could be clearly seen on the gentle, even slope ahead.

Without further words, Lieutenant Cory led them down into the river, crossing straight over and ignoring which way the wagons might have gone. On the other side, he waved Stevens ahead. They rode at a steady trot, following a clear trail. The raiders had not bothered to hide their tracks, but their progress seemed to make no sense. The trail meandered left and right in wide curves instead of heading directly in any direction. On one occasion the pursuers found themselves turning back on their tracks in a complete circle. They traversed so little ground that the Gautiers, riding straight east, caught them up quickly. It was totally frustrating, but there seemed to be no other option but to keep following. Cory just hoped no-one was on the look-out for them. There was very little cover, but the Rebel band had already demonstrated several times that they were masters of concealment, even in daylight.

It was not long before the sandy earth began to turn to much rockier desert terrain. Stevens dismounted and examined the ground closely, but it was impossible to pick up any clear tracks, even though the stars were brilliant with silver radiance. The rock and dust bore few traces and a light breeze had sprung up, drifting sand and scraps of debris along the surface to further obscure any traces there might have seen.

Ahead of them the land began to rise steeply into a wall of cliffs, buttresses, long spurs of the mountains and inaccessible plateaus. They turned along the edge of this, heading north, but soon came to tracks of a heavily laden wagon, which had been driven southwards. Resigned, they turned back, wondering how they had missed the traces to the south.

The answer was that they hadn't. All of a sudden, the wagon appeared to have stopped abruptly where they had first seen its wheel-marks. From then on, the wide rock shelf at the edge of the cliff was scuffed and littered with debris, but the only hoof-prints were those of their own mounts, heading north and then returning. It looked as if the wind had been playing games across this particular stretch.

Stevens shook his head. "It must have gone somewhere!" he muttered in frustration. But there was no sign, no evidence to lead them anywhere. "The wagon was heading south. We'd better go on in that direction – it's my best guess."

Cory took time to consider carefully, but he could not see any alternative which would bring more success. He turned in his saddle and signaled to his men, who were strung out behind, each of them automatically taking a portion of the ground to go over again. He commended them mentally for their thoroughness without being ordered, even if it was not bearing results. They converged again to ride as a group and set off southwards once more.

They had not gone very far, however, when there was a muted call: "Here, sir!"

Cory reined his horse round and rode back a few paces. The three younger men had formed the rear-guard and the alert eyes of Sherman had spotted something the rest of them had missed in the shadows. On closer inspection, this proved to be the mouth of a narrow canyon, scarcely wide enough, it seemed, for more than a couple of horsemen to pass through. It was naturally concealed by the way the buttresses at the entrance curved out from the mountain wall.

"A horse stood here, sir," the young man pointed to a single print, almost blurred to nothing by the encroaching dust and grit.

Cory looked up the gorge. He could see very little, but it appeared to continue just as narrow as the entrance, the sides deep-cloaked in darkness and only a faint strip of starlight touching the floor here and there in places.

"Shall we go investigate, sir?" The twins were already turning their horses to head up the canyon.

"No!" Cory reacted sharply. "We stick together. Splitting up would let them pick us off one at a time. And it only needs one man who's a good shot to hold that passage indefinitely." He had no doubt that at least some of the Rebel forces had traversed the twisting tunnel of the canyon and that they could ride in the deep shadows under the cliffs as if they were riding a broad, grassy trail leading home. But it would be suicide for a stranger, not knowing what to expect, to follow such a path. Disappointing though it was to abandon the first lead they'd had, it made no sense at all to risk losing good men for the sake of misplaced bravado in following the enemy recklessly through terrain which was all in their favour.

"Continue south," he ordered.

Stevens led them back to the trail they had been following. But they had not travelled a quarter of a mile when the scout pulled up with a furious exclamation. "Will you look at that!"

In front of them the wheel-tracks of the wagon suddenly began again. The trail gave the impression the wagon had simply been lifted into the sky by some giant eagle and only returned to earth at this point, far from its starting place. Stevens leapt from his saddle and crouched low over the offending prints, muttering viciously to himself as he did so. Cory kept his men back and out of the way and the light.

Presently, he slid from his saddle and strolled over to join the scout, who gave every impression of being about to throw down his hat and jump on it. As soon as he was close to the tracks, the Lieutenant could see what was riling him.

"An empty wagon," he ventured.

"Yeah!" the other man grunted. "The team are running flat out, as if they've been spooked, but the wagon's ridin' high and light behind them. The terrain's gettin' soft the further south it goes – we'll have no problem tracking it."

"Or what's left of it," Cory observed shrewdly. "The mouth of that canyon wasn't obvious, especially in the dark, unless you knew where to look. I'm willing to bet the wagon must have been halted and methodically stripped of its contents. Where they took them – who knows? But wherever it is, they started from that canyon."

Stevens nodded. "But you're right. Only a fool would go up there in the dark, not knowing what was waitin' for him." He paused and then added: "You ain't no fool, Lieutenant."

Cory grinned. "Neither are you, Stevens – and these young hot-heads'll do as I say." His grin was turned on his men, as he went on: "At least, I think they will."

"If we know what's good for us!" Sherman and the twins chorused. They were fond of ribbing Mort about his protective sense of responsibility for them.

"Ain't so young –"

"Nor so hot-headed –" Harris and Jenkins also sounded like a chorus.

"Reckon you have the right of it, sir." They could both read the evidence.

"So what do we do now?" Jacquo Gautier asked.

"Our orders are clear." It was not Mort Cory who replied. Instead Corporal Sherman proved once again his respect for authority and his commitment to duty. "We were told to find the wagons."

"So that's what we'll do," his Lieutenant affirmed. "At least, we'll try to find this one."

They mounted up again and continued to head in a southerly direction. The terrain was indeed soft. The wheel-marks were clearly visible and they were able to ride at a reasonable pace without fear of losing them.

After a while, another shout from young Sherman called them to a halt. They had been riding spread out, abreast, in case any traces showed riders meeting up with the wagon. Sherman was on the end of the line, nearest the river and had already jumped down when Mort Cory rode over to him.

"See, sir!" He held up a handful of bullets which gleamed silver in the starlight.

From behind them, Harris quipped: "We'll be callin' you 'Sharp-Eye', not 'Slim' if y' gonna keep doin' this!"

Cory simply nodded and said briskly, "Put them in your saddlebag and mount up." He was thinking hard. He could almost see the smirk on the face of the enemy leader at the way this tactic was bound to delay their pursuit. He also knew that he was tracking a ruthless and pragmatic commander, who, despite being desperate for ammunition, was prepared to sacrifice some of it to thwart the enemy and waste their precious time.

They collected several more handfuls of bullets; at this great distance from their base line, Cory was unwilling to waste ammunition, even if it seemed plentiful in camp. Finally they found the wagon, abandoned in the soft margins of the river, just deep enough to make it difficult to get to. It was a moot point whether it had got there by accident, but it seemed unlikely, given the previous skill of the drivers and the cunning tricks used to delay anyone trailing it. And there were just enough ammunition cases visible to ensure that they were forced to investigate whether there was anything left to salvage.

Wading in rivers was a young man's job. Sherman and the twins dismounted. The edge of the river was deep mud and getting their horses bogged down trying to ride out to the wagon would be stupid. They were all going to get soaking wet, but it was not a cold night and Cory figured the young were resilient enough to survive. Meanwhile Stevens, Harris and Jenkins made a careful examination of the surrounding area.

It wasn't long before they found where the horses had left the river after being cut free. There was little to be gained from examining the tracks. They were familiar by now with the Rebel tactics and, sure enough, the horses seemed to have bolted, run in circles, cut across each other, doubled back and, of course, mysteriously found the nearest hard ground where their hoof-prints made virtually no impression.

"They did everything bar dance in a line whistlin' _The Bonnie Blue Flag_!" Stevens reported in tones of disgust. He knew that given time and decent light he could unravel the problems being set for him, but they had neither commodity and, into the bargain, an impatient Captain waiting for their report.

The wagon was, equally predictably, empty. All they had to show for their investigations was three pairs of wet breeches.

The three young men shook themselves like dogs and remounted briskly. There seemed to be little point in searching further south, since there was no sign at all of the second wagon. Mort Cory was also conscious that the night was deepening and they were achieving nothing which could possibly aid the beleaguered troop.

"Spread out!" he ordered. "We'll back-track as far as the canyon. I want to know if the smallest pebble is out of place or the least leaf damaged. Call halt if there is the slightest hint we might have missed something."

He was pretty sure they hadn't. Stevens was very competent and, besides, the concealment practised so far by the Confederate band did not suggest that they were likely to leave obvious clues. Even the hoof-print Sherman had found was almost obscured and gave no indication as to which way the horse had departed. Mort Cory did not, however, allow impossibilities to put him off doing a thorough job, even if all they were going to get for their efforts was sore eyes and stiff necks.

These predictions were amply fulfilled by the time they reached their objective. The party drew to a halt once more and considered the dark gateway to the mountains. Cory could feel the eagerness of the younger men, although it was tempered by respect for his decisions and, on the part of Slim Sherman, well-grounded common sense. The three older men gave no indication of their opinion, just waited patiently; they were all far too experienced to rush matters.

After a few minutes, Stevens gave an apologetic cough and admitted: "I don't know how they did it, but I'm sure they brought both wagons to this point."

Cory ran shrewd eyes over the ground again and nodded in agreement. "They emptied them, loaded the stuff on to their own horses and abandoned the empty wagons where they'd cause us maximum effort to examine. Even if we find the second one, there won't be anything in it but a load of trouble and wasted time."

Silence fell again. As the senior officer, all the responsibility lay on Cory. They could tackle the canyon or they could try their luck to the north or they could return to camp. Presently he ordered: "Back to base!"

Stevens looked hard at him and reminded him: "The Captain expects us to find the wagons."

"We have sufficient evidence to suggest that would be useless and a waste of time and energy," Cory replied firmly.

"Lieutenant, the Captain ain't gonna see it that way!" Stevens asserted. "You gonna risk how he'll feel about it?"

Cory returned the hard look. "It isn't a matter of feelings. It's a matter of the evidence. We've done our duty as efficiently as we can. I am prepared to be held fully accountable for my decision."

Stevens looked deeply worried. "Captain's way of accountin' is –"

Cory cut him short. "Any competent officer would make the same decision."

"Yeah, that's what I mean." Stevens hesitated for a moment, but he had developed considerable trust and respect for the new Lieutenant. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"What is it, Stevens?"

"The Captain, sir. I've served under him for the last six months. He ain't …" The man hesitated again. "He ain't carryin' the responsibility like he did at the beginning. Since we've been on this campaign, well, not wishin' to sound disrespectful, but some of his decisions have been …" Stevens searched for a word which wouldn't get him court-marshalled and finally settled for: "Odd!"

Cory's eyes were warm with sympathy for the man's dilemma and his concern, but he replied coolly and authoritatively: "I can't act on hearsay, Stevens. How your troop has been commanded in the past is outside my jurisdiction. But we are returning right now because it best serves the troop and my contingent."

And so they did.

Jogging over the flat land to the river, seeing the trails criss-crossing it like a ravelled skein of rope, Cory allowed himself time to reflect on the complex relationships with any military band. He knew that the reinforcements, of which his contingent were the advance guard, had been seconded because Blake's troop was perceived to need strengthening. Such a judgement by his superiors could not have been easy on the young Captain's pride. Arriving in the nick of time to take part in a battle he had not anticipated, Cory had not had the opportunity to make a measured assessment of the new company they had joined. But he was aware of the poor morale of the troop, the lack of coherent orders and a battle plan, the extreme pressure of blame being vented on subordinates. Of the officers in the camp, he had seen only Sergeant Guerra who resolutely and conscientiously carried out his duty towards the men under him.

Mort Cory did not want to think of the condition in which he had been forced to leave Guerra. Regardless of what the man had or had not done, he was a human being who deserved to be treated with compassion and justice. But he was forced to think of it. He had sensed in the man a deep integrity, a passionate loyalty and a profound care for his comrades, which equalled Mort's own. The integrity and loyalty might or might not be towards the Union, but they were real, nonetheless. And there was no question of the way Guerra felt about the ones he fought alongside. Added to this, he had a clear sense of the duties inherent in his rank.

Those duties included flogging a prisoner and being prepared to hold him under torture. Mort felt a biting anguish that relationships between citizens of the same mighty country had degenerated to this. He was still surprised at himself – and yet not surprised when he had called out in protest, trying to bring reason to bear on the interrogation proceedings. Trying to divert the tide of injured pride and retribution. Trying to remind everyone that they were all human beings. It had been a risk, but a risk he felt utterly was worth taking.

 _Yet what was it about that young Confederate which provoked this reaction in him? And how did he know and respond to Guerra's reluctance, his compliance in administering the punishment only because it was his duty?_

Ridiculous though it seemed, there was something that called to him. Something that said: ' _We are greater than this war, this strife between brothers_.'

 _Brothers!_ It was a common enough way of describing those who fought together, and yet now it seemed to have a much more profound significance. The prisoner was young, younger even than Slim. It was obvious from his total defiance of Blake and all his captors could do to him that he would give heart, mind and soul to the things in which he believed. Slim Sherman was the same – Mort knew this from personal experience. How could it be that these two kindred souls were torn apart, before they had even had a chance to meet, by a war which sacrificed everything, good, bad and indifferent on the altar of division?

Deep inside himself, Mort felt the yearning for justice and equality which had driven him all his life. If he had his way, these two young men would be fast friends instead of implacable enemies, friends with a better use for faith and loyalty than to tear at each other's throats until one or other had all the power bled out of them. _Maybe in the future …_

The Lieutenant brought himself back to the immediate future with firm self-discipline. There would be no greater future for his country if he did not give a principled lead and set a high standard as he carried out his own duties now.

They were splashing through the river and soon broke into a gallop, heading for the mouth of the valley where their camp awaited their return. As they came over the little ridge which divided the valley from its mouth, Cory flung up a hand in the signal to halt. It was Stevens who expressed all their opinions with unconscious irony:

"What the blazes is happenin'?"

The entire camp was lit by a ring of fire.

 **#####**

Neither Lieutenant Cory nor Stevens could believe their eyes. Fires had been lit at intervals all round the perimeter of the camp – a clear challenge to anyone trying to mount an offensive. The only problem was it also made clear exactly where the boundaries were and left the men guarding them blind to attack.

As they rode down to the camp, this was obvious. They were not challenged until almost the last moment, when Cory was thinking of abandoning the whole venture until daylight would create less potential for catastrophic mistakes of identity.

When they had finally been challenged and passed to ride into the camp, Cory looked around with something akin to despair. It would have been so easy for an enemy as shrewd and adaptable as the one they were facing to get close enough to the guards to take them down, with devastating effect. But an even more devastating discovery was close at hand.

Cory had ordered his little troop to return to their tent, intending that he and Stevens should report back Captain Blake, when a curious grouping of men around one of the nearby fires caught his eye. Praying that he was not seeing what he suspected, he handed his horse over to Sherman and beckoned Stevens to follow him.

There was the kind of silence surrounding the little group by the fire which was unmistakable. The silence which brutality breeds when it is exercised unchecked and unopposed. The silence of men biting their tongues to keep from admitting their horror and guilt. As Cory and Stevens approached the group seemed to huddle together as if driven to self-defence by the shame they felt.

Without hesitation, Mort Cory grabbed two of the soldiers and forced them apart so that he could see what was holding their attention. He looked across the little circle. The flame-light might just as well have been that of hell!

"Stop right there!" Mort's voice rang out in commanding fury.

The other Sergeant froze - the hot iron he was wielding stopped only inches from Guerra's stomach.

"Put it down, Taylor."

The speed with which the Sergeant obeyed suggested that he was totally relieved at being prevented from any further action by a higher authority. This was just as well. Guerra was being held up by two others or he would probably have collapsed. His back, shoulders and ribs were raw with beating and, where the blood was not running, the blackened skin of many burns told its own tale. But he was still breathing. Breathing slowly, with long, ragged breaths. And his face was calm. Uncannily calm and expressionless. As if he no longer existed in the savage firelight, but in a place far beyond the reach of his tormentors.

"Captain Blake's orders, sir!" Sergeant Taylor sounded as if he was reminding Lieutenant Cory of their mutual accountability.

"Consider the orders fulfilled," Mort told him softly.

"Captain'll expect a report," Taylor pointed out, clearly knowing full well that he had nothing with which to appease the Captain's fury.

"Then we will report to him."

Taylor hesitated, perhaps knowing his skin might be next for the lash.

"Now!" Mort's voice snapped out an icy command and was instantly obeyed. The little group made their way slowly back to the command tent, half-carrying, half-dragging the man from whom they had been trying to force a confession.

A little way off, Slim stood holding the three horses and biting his lip in an effort to overcome the desire to vomit. But he was cut from a stern fabric and would never let his own physical reactions get in the way of what he saw as his definite duty. He urged the horses briskly back to the tent, where he made some swift preparations.

 **#####**

Inside Captain Blake's headquarters, the atmosphere was fraught with rage, suspicion, fear and something Mort was realised with trepidation was the beginnings of madness. He did not let Taylor face their superior officer alone, but stood resolutely beside him. He was pleased to find Stevens taking his place at Taylor's other side. Two of the corporals stood behind them.

Blake's angry glare scoured over the five of them. "About time! I expected results long ago. Report!"

Taylor gulped and went pale, but did his best to maintain a formal demeanour. "We've done our best, sir. He won't speak."

"You have not done your best, Sergeant! He has not spoken." The Captain moved swiftly to stand right in Taylor's sweating face. "What did you do, cut his tongue out by mistake?" The sarcasm was laced with impotent fury at being denied the information he so badly needed.

"We don't have any proof he's actually got anything to tell," Mort pointed out reasonably. He didn't for a moment think that the Captain would be open to reason, but someone had to keep a grip on sanity.

"He let the prisoner escape!" Blake was adamant. "Why would he do that if he wasn't a damn spy?"

"We did pick him up unconscious. He couldn't have done that to himself," one of the corporals put in. He sounded hesitant, unwilling to take any risks, but at the same time wanting to compensate for their violent treatment of their own comrade.

Emboldened by this, the other added: "He was knocked out cold. Enough to scramble any man's brains." They all liked and respected Guerra and none of them had really wanted to be involved in carrying out such orders.

"So even if he does speak, he may not remember, not know anything."

It was the new Lieutenant again. Blake recalled now how he shouted out in protest when the Captain had ordered the prisoner to be beaten. _Obviously a man with no stomach for tough decisions!_ he told himself. _And blind to the evil of having this Southerner in our ranks!_

"Not know anything?" The Captain's tone was dangerous and would have warned anyone who knew him better.

But the one who spoke with reason did not seem to be daunted. "Two Rebel riders carried off the prisoner. So much is confirmed by the report of those who witnessed it, as I did myself. If they knocked out Sergeant Guerra in doing so, it does not make him a spy."

"Gerrer is a damn Southerner!" the Captain snarled. "The only one in this troop. Who else would pass information?"

"There is no proof he was doing so." Mort Cory was not going to be deflected from the truth.

"Not yet, Lieutenant, not yet. But there will be when he speaks." The Captain turned abruptly, strode over to the chair behind his work table and flung himself into it. "Sergeant, apply the irons. Now!"

"We already have, sir." Taylor's tone clearly betrayed his distaste for torturing his fellow officer, even though he had done so thoroughly and without mercy. He had already pointed out that it was, in any case, ineffective.

"Nonsense! I heard nothing."

"There was nothing to hear, sir. He didn't make a sound the whole time." There was admiration as well as frustration in Taylor's voice.

Blake swore and the chair crashed to the ground as he leapt up in anger. "I hate to call you incompetent, Sergeant Taylor, but do I have to do everything myself to achieve efficiency?"

"Taylor was most efficient." Mort's voice subtly conveyed his distaste and disapproval of the whole proceeding without giving the slightest cause for an accusation of insubordination.

"He's outside, sir. You can see for yourself what we … tried."

Blake glared at them all. He could feel respect and command slipping away from him. He suspected it was due to the presence of this Lieutenant Cory, the one Gerrer had been so pleased to praise – a man nearly twice his own age – and every year of that age was one of hard, practical experience – it was in the lines on his face, the shrewdness of his eyes, the resolute stance of his tough, wiry body. This was not a man whom it was possible to daunt or coerce.

The angry Captain pushed past his subordinates and led the way out of the tent. The open space outside the tent was surprisingly crowded. There was a small crowd around the body of the man slumped on his knees, his head bowed almost to the ground. The firelight and torches left no doubt about what had happened to him. His skin was lacerated with many lashes and blackened marks showed where the most sensitive parts of his body had been savagely burned. There was a soldier was bending over him. For a moment Blake hoped he was inflicting further torture, but then he saw the white smudge of a damp cloth in the man's hand. He was attempting to wipe away some of the blood and cool the raging burns.

The sight snapped the last controls on Blake's fury. Not only were his orders being thwarted and his need for information denied, but someone saw fit to offer compassion to this miserable traitor. _Someone so much saner, so much more caring_ … for a split second, Blake wondered at the madness driving him through this relentless conflict. But then he realised that here was yet another attempt to undermine him. He erupted with the full force of his displeasure and his authority.

"What do you think you are doing!" His voice rang out like a lash and the one who had been tending to the prisoner stopped in mid-action. The man leapt to his feet and Blake found himself confronted with six foot three of immovable integrity and care topped with icy blue eyes which left no doubt about what the blonde corporal was feeling.

"Attention, soldier!" It was the Lieutenant again, commanding this time, but not intimidating. "Report. Account for your actions."

"Sir! Prisoner collapsed. Without attention, could not speak to give information."

"Very perceptive, corporal." Captain Blake stamped over impatiently to examine the prisoner, restraining with difficulty his desire to apply his boot to those damaged ribs once more – or maybe even to the soft-hearted corporal. Compassion was as dangerous as treachery. "However, you do not seem to have revived him. You are dismissed!"

"Sir!" The corporal saluted and strode away, the thud of his boots reverberating through the ground as if he were distinctly unhappy about leaving the prisoner at the mercy of his tormentors. A sneer crossed Blake's face. _Another defiant one to be dealt with, the sooner the better! But one problem at a time. Better to finish this while there was still obedience in the troop._

"I grow tired of this affair." The Captain contrived to sound bored, but underneath this superficial impression, his voice was filled with frustration and desire for vengeance. "We can ill afford to waste our rest on this miserable traitor. Let us sleep. But let us ensure that he does not!"

The ensuing pause was so deadly quiet that the faint sound of Sherman's retreating footsteps could still be heard in the distance. Captain Blake paced impatiently back and forth as he thought, seeking a suitable way to secure the traitor and continue the torture. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lieutenant Cory, daring to stand still and firm next to the prisoner, ostensibly on guard, of course, but in reality ready to prevent Blake from inflicting further punishment. _Or so he hopes!_ Blake thought gleefully.

"I think he can spend the night," he pronounced coldly, "in irons. Beyond the hospital tent, there is a dead tree. It has a convenient branch at just the right height to chain a man so that he can neither stand nor rest. Do it! And make sure you set our sharpest guards and keep the fires well built up. We don't want anyone dropping off to sleep or dropping in."

"You expect the Rebels to come for him, sir?" Sergeant Taylor asked.

The Captain laughed. "With the perimeter of the camp fully illuminated? I somehow doubt it, Sergeant! No, it is sympathisers within that I fear." He raked all those present with a scorching scowl. "Make sure I do not have any reason to search out further traitors! Hang him in chains! Do it!"

There was a flurry of action as the men hastened to obey. Since he was now, by default, the senior officer, Mort followed Blake into the tent.

"You want something, Lieutenant?" Blake flung himself back into the chair. Although secretly he felt more able to face up to this man on his feet, he needed to give the impression of confident nonchalance.

"To carry out my duty, Captain. I'll set the watch on the prisoner and –"

"You will do no such thing!" Blake surged to his feet again, despite his cool intentions. "You will leave the prisoner to _my_ officers. And that corporal, the blonde one. What's his name?"

"Matthew Sherman, sir."

Blake's eyes narrowed as he sensed a stronger bond than just one of rank and authority. "Sherman. Well, if you value his hide, Lieutenant, keep him out of my sight and well away from my prisoner! Now call Sergeant Taylor."

For a long moment they held each other's eyes. Then Mort turned on his heel and went out to summon Taylor to be given his guard duties.

 **#####**

It was obvious to Mort as he walked briskly through the darkened camp that all the men could not stay on watch all night. But with the collapse of the chain of command and Blake's irrational behaviour, which he had now witnessed first-hand, no-one had had the authority to set rosters and ensure someone was in charge at each guard point.

Heaving a sigh very much like the one Danny Guerra had uttered only a few dark hours ago, Mort set about the necessary organisation. But first he gave orders to his own men, deploying them to act as messengers between the various sections of the camp and ensuring he remained fully informed at all times. Slim Sherman he kept with him. This was partly because of Blake's threats, but more importantly because he wanted Slim to gain as much experience as possible of all aspects of military duty, so that when he was promoted he had skills and knowledge to build on. The other men in the Wyoming contingent respected him for his abilities, young though he was, and liked him into the bargain. Despite the circumstances, Mort smiled a little to himself: Slim was very likeable!

Together they checked each of the fires, making sure the men on watch were evenly spread along the perimeter of the camp, that each group had chosen someone to take over-all responsibility and that they were doing their best to preserve their night-sight against the unhelpful blaze of light. While the Captain was still in command, Mort did not feel he could order the men to allow the fires simply to die down. _While the Captain was still in command?_ He wondered briefly how much longer this could go on, before turning his attention firmly to the task in hand.

With these changes to the way the guard was arranged, some at least of the men were able to rest for a while, although Mort doubted if any of them would sleep much. He sensed a profound uneasiness amongst them, even though he did not know them at all, and endeavoured to bolster their morale by his own calm and encouraging presence and words.

"They're missing their Sergeant," Slim observed as they made their way back to their own tent. "From what I've heard, everyone trusted and liked him."

 _Everyone except the Captain!_ hung unspoken in the air. _Who had the right of it? Or was there any absolute right and wrong in such a conflict?_

Mort nodded quietly. "He was a conscientious and efficient officer."

Slim stopped, halting in a dark shadow thrown between two of the fires. He said equally quietly, "He was more than that."

Mort looked at him, sensing something in his tone which went far beyond a simple concern for another human being's welfare. He waited patiently, trusting Slim's honesty and his sense of justice.

"He was a brother," Slim said. "The Rebel prisoner. They were brothers."

"Are you sure?" It was hard to believe, though not impossible, for among other evils the war had torn apart some families.

"The loose horses stopped me joining you at first and it seemed sense to collect ours." Mort remembered Slim coming to the tent with the horses after the attack, breathing hard as if he had just been in a race. His young friend went on: "Guerra and the prisoner were left standing, bound together, in front of the captain's tent. I saw them recognise each other. The boy flung his arms round Guerra, gave him a desperate hug. Guerra had to break the embrace, hold him off at arms' length. Then two horsemen bore down on them, the boy ran and jumped and they swept him up, carried him off into the night."

"Yes, I saw them," Mort agreed, "but how are you so sure they really are brothers?"

"I asked," Slim said simply. "I thought it was like that bit in the Book of Proverbs, where it speaks of brotherhood which comes to life out of shared adversity. But he said no. He just stood there, gazing after the boy as if he'd seen a ghost, as if they'd been parted for a long, long time. He said he was a brother born of the same blood."

"That explains a great deal," Mort commented thoughtfully. "But Guerra was picked up unconscious."

"The boy hit him. I think Guerra must have told him to, so he wouldn't be suspected." Slim paused and, even in the dim shadows, Mort could see how resolute his face was. "I haven't had a chance to tell you this yet, sir, but the boy couldn't bring himself to hit hard enough, even if it meant saving his brother. I knocked Guerra out."

Mort reached out and laid a firm hand on his young friend's shoulder. "You're off duty now, Slim. And it's Mort, not sir. The Rebels would have rescued the boy, regardless of what you or Guerra did."

A grim frown flashed across Slim's face. "I doubt if Captain Blake would see it that way. He was looking for evidence to prove Guerra let the prisoner escape right from the start."

"But there isn't any evidence," Mort pointed out.

"Not anymore." Slim reached into his pocket and held out the cut pieces of rope. "He cut this. He is guilty, but I would do the same again. And I think you would too, Mort."

Mort considered this and then slowly nodded his head. "And despite what you or I have done to prevent the consequences, Guerra has suffered terribly. Enough for any offence!"

"But he suffered willingly for his brother." Slim's eyes were gleaming and Mort knew he was remembering the young brother he had left behind in Laramie.

"And still is!" Mort had been turning this over in his mind, all the while they had been organising the camp, trying desperately to think of a way that the brutal treatment of Guerra could be stopped.

"And I'm still off duty, aren't I?" Slim demanded.

"Indeed you are. It's been a long night – and a dark one."

"It's not over until the dawn." Slim thrust the rope back into his pocket and stood facing Mort squarely, his head up and his shoulders flung back in fervent determination. "And I still have something to do!"

.

* * *

.

NOTES:

The increasing strain of command, leading ultimately to Blake's irrational and unpredictable behaviour, and the continuing loyalty and obedience of the men under him, was initially inspired by Matt Martin's brother in _Incident at Phantom Hill_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Encounter in Shadows**

Jantallian

.

' _A friend loveth at all times and a brother is born for adversity.'_ Proverbs 17:17

.

 **The Fourth Encounter**

.

Thrusting the cut rope into his pocket was almost a reflex action as Matthew Sherman bent briefly over the man he had just felled with a devastating punch. Sergeant Guerra was going to be out for a long, long time – long enough to keep him out of the fracas which would undoubtedly erupt when the escape of the Rebel prisoner was discovered.

 _It was court-martial offence to strike a superior officer – but it had been next to impossible to do anything else!_ There was no way Sherman was going to leave Guerra to face a shooting squad when all he had done was preserve the life of his blood-kin, for the bond of love sustaining the Sherman family was stronger than anything else. Sherman's deep instinct for caring and protecting had been nurtured by his parents' way of life. _Would Pa approve of what he had done?_ He did not know absolutely, but he did know that he was prepared to stand by his actions and their consequences and this was something his Pa had taught him every day by example.

There was no time to ponder on such things now. Events had moved so swiftly **…**

 **#####**

 **…** One moment he had been halted, riveted to the spot in the shadow between two tents. One moment he had taken in with horror what was going on beyond the massed ranks of spectators. The next, the shadows all around the edges of the camp were suddenly alive with Rebel yells. The next, a bugle shrilled, splitting the night, and was cut off in mid-note. After a split second of stunned immobility, the masses broke and scattered haphazardly, each man running to the defence of their base. It was a disordered response and Slim Sherman knew that without leadership this instinctive reaction was going to result in chaos.

He scanned the crowd and saw his own leader, the only one he trusted under fire, gather the rest of his comrades about him and head off briskly into the distance. Before he could move a foot to follow them, there was a thunderous pounding of hooves and his way was cut off as loose horses surged like a storm-cloud through the camp. Captain Blake might be shouting for his horse, but neither Blake nor anyone else would find a mount to pursue the attackers, at least not in the immediate aftermath of this raid.

Until the horses had streamed through the centre of the camp, Sherman was trapped between the tents. There were many horses, all of them stirred up into an excited mass and relishing their sudden freedom. It was impossible to stop any of them, divert them or round them up. The air was thick with smoking sweat and, through the thrown-up dust, he could see nothing much.

What he could see held him motionless, even when the dust and the path had cleared.

Sergeant Guerra and the prisoner were still standing, bound together, before the captain's tent, as chaos erupted all around them. They seemed to be isolated from the world of the camp, caught in a brief moment of time which was for them alone. From where he was standing, Sherman had been able to hear nothing of any dialogue, except the challenge issued by his own Lieutenant, Mort Cory, when Blake ordered the prisoner to be flogged: "Is that absolutely necessary, sir?"

 _It could not be necessary!_ Slim heartily agreed. The captured Rebel was little more than a boy. What passed for his uniform was much too big, belted to fit his slim form and there was something child-like and carefree about the way his unruly hair tumbled over his forehead and neck, for it was badly in need of a cut. Yet, when his shirt had been torn off for the lashing Slim could see that, despite the cruel paring of habitual starvation, his body was lean and tough, full of the latent power and endurance. Even at a distance, there was no doubting his courage and resolution, young though he was.

 _You gallant little fool!_ Slim was mature enough himself to judge when a situation was not going to be improved by reckless defiance. Somehow he knew this youngster was never going to put personal safety before his principles – a characteristic which Slim heartily agreed with – or part with information about his comrades, no matter what was done to him. But Slim also knew instinctively that his impetuous actions were always going to land him in a whole heap of trouble which common sense would have saved him.

After what seemed a long pause, action did happen. Guerra wrenched his arms free from his prisoner's and pulled out his belt-knife. Slim gasped, fearing the sergeant was about to make a summary execution. But instead he slashed the rope which bound the Rebel and gave him an encouraging shove. His lips moved with an order. Whatever he said caused a shocked reaction in the boy, who turned, arrested in his escape by Guerra's words.

They stood staring at each other. Then, to Slim's utter surprise, the boy flung his arms round the man in a desperate hug. Guerra had to break the embrace, hold him off at arms' length. With sudden clarity of insight, he saw the similarity between them. In height and build Guerra was the bigger and much more muscular of the two, but if the boy had been better fed and Guerra had not been clad in a concealing uniform, the resemblance would have been all too obvious.

The tableau lasted scarcely a second. Suddenly two mounted men were galloping full tilt towards them out of the night. In the heat of the moment, Slim's mind registered little about the riders – just the gleaming copper-coloured hair of one and a brief glimpse of an inscrutable face framed by flying black hair which would not have been out of place on an Apache. They were obviously intent on retrieving their captured comrade and would stop at nothing to do so.

It was all happening much too quickly. The horsemen were bearing down on the pair before the tent at a frightening speed.

"Run, Wolf-cub, run!"

The prisoner was galvanised into action. His fist thudded into Guerra's jaw, sending him staggering to the ground. Then he began to run furiously through the camp, running, against all reason, away from his rescuers. Slim held his breath, though he did not know why. The boy could not outrun the horses, if that was his aim, for their riders urged them even faster, riding knee to knee as if they were one unit. At the very last moment, the two horses turned slightly apart and the boy's arms were seized from either side just as he took a running jump into the air. By some miracle of co-ordination, his feet found purchase on their stirrups and he was standing between the two horses, his own hands fiercely gripping the shoulders of the riders. The two horses continued at a full gallop, bearing their prize out of the camp.

Slim's breath hissed out in a sigh of relief. He suddenly found that he was willing the prisoner to escape and indeed admired the daring and skill with which he had been rescued. Guerra too had obviously wanted the boy to get away. Slim wondered why. _Was it just that a good man could not stand being given bad orders? Had Guerra a natural sense of justice which revolted against summary punishment and the violent extraction of information from a prisoner of war in denial of his rights? Or was there a deeper link between the man and the boy, a unity betrayed by their physical similarity?_

When he looked back at the sergeant, Guerra had struggled dazedly up off the ground and was staring into the smoke and flames as they swallowed up his prisoner. Slim regarded him with quiet speculation before walking slowly up to him, ignoring for the moment the fighting going on in the distance.

The cut rope lay on the trampled, blood-stained grass between them.

They gazed at each other, both knowing the penalty for what Sergeant Guerra had done. As if to reinforce the truth, from somewhere not far off in the surrounding darkness, Blake's angry voice was already bellowing: "Sergeant Gerrer, keep a tight guard on the prisoner!"

Slim gave Guerra another long look. His mind suddenly recalled his father, reading the Book of Proverbs to him and explaining how men became brothers through their shared suffering. He said gently: "A brother born for adversity?"

The sergeant looked down at his bloody hands and soaking shirt. His voice was a choked whisper: "A brother born of the same blood."

Illumination filled Slim's heart. "That's why he couldn't hit you hard enough, even to save you."

He came to an instant decision.

The swift, sledge-hammer punch Slim delivered plunged Guerra finally into a blackness which might protect him from avenging fury. Even while he was falling, Slim Sherman stooped and picked up the cut rope and thrust it into his pocket. A moment later, he too had vanished into the smoky shadows of the night **…**

 **#####**

 **…** Now, with horses very much in the forefront of his mind, Corporal Sherman remembered that those of his contingent had been hobbled, not tied in the lines. Some horses were going to be essential if they were to round up the others, for without mounts the whole troop was stranded and virtually helpless in enemy territory.

As he hastened back in the direction of the horse-lines, there was indeed chaos all through the camp. Flames were roaring – men rushing to deal with the threat to the munitions stores – wheels rumbling into the distance - random shots being loosed off by the baffled Union soldiers. Dust, smoke and shadows clouded the vision and seemed to cloud the mind too.

Sherman's mind, however, was perfectly clear. He had set himself a task and carried it out swiftly and efficiently. The horses he sought were milling about uneasily, highly disturbed by the sudden frantic departure of the main herd, and it took him some time to catch and calm them all down. Finally he managed to hitch them in such a way that he could lead them back to the tent where the Wyoming men were based. As he passed back through the camp he saw injured and burnt soldiers being helped to the hospital tent, although fewer than might be expected, given the level of mayhem the attackers had generated. Ironically, being gathered together round the prisoner had, in some respects, worked in favour of the Union, because there was safety in numbers. The attackers had withdrawn almost at once, melting into the night as individuals, although they had acted in unison with the single-minded strength and co-operation of a wolf-pack. So, amidst the whispering and muttering of the unwounded soldiers, they earned the name 'ghost wolves' _._

Sherman was eager to get back to his own quarters and into his proper uniform before someone decided he was a ghost-wolf, particularly as he alone had a string of horses in his possession. When he came up to the tent, Lieutenant Cory was checking on the condition of the men in the tents closest to that of his contingent, just as Sergeant Guerra had after the battle earlier in what seemed to be a very long day. Sherman saluted and reported: "The raiders let loose the main lines, but ours were hobbled, so they didn't run far. Thought I'd better bring them back here in case we need them, Mor … sir!"

The Lieutenant gave him a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. "Well done, son. Keep them here, out front, where we can see them. I'm going to report to the Captain."

"Yes, sir." He saluted again.

"And, Slim –"

The nick-name came naturally and brought a smile to both their faces. Mort had known him since he was a babe in arms and, although it was a long time since he'd been a skinny young kid, somehow the name had stuck. Formality was not normal between the two of them, but both of them recognised and appreciated the need for discipline.

"Sir?"

"Tell the others to be ready to ride out in pursuit. We may be the only ones left with mounts."

"Yes, sir."

The Lieutenant strode away in the direction of the Captain's tent. Slim ducked through the canvas door and made short work of getting into his uniform. He felt a lot more confident once he had done so and readied his companions for the possibility of more action. It was some time before this transpired.

Eventually, Lieutenant Cory returned with the news that they were indeed under orders to ride out. Unfortunately the horses belonging to their three injured comrades had been caught after the battle and taken to the horse-lines instead of being hobbled, so Big Malcolm's horse had to be allocated to the scout, Stevens.

"We've been ordered to find the horses and the wagons," the Lieutenant informed them when he had introduced Stevens. "Lieutenant McCormick and Sergeant Guerra are both injured, so the duty falls to me. Mount up and let's get on with it."

Cory's face and tone were as calm as ever, but knowing the man as well as he did, Slim could see that something was troubling him. It was some considerable time before he found out what.

 **#####**

Lieutenant Cory's search party halted at the narrow mouth of the battle-scarred valley and surveyed the trail before them. It was a very small party indeed to be tracking a band of at least thirty seasoned Confederates over their home territory, but Cory was not daunted and his men took their demeanour from him. They stood a reasonable chance of finding something, Sherman reasoned: the wagons would be less easy to hide than the men who had taken them.

The tracks of the wagons led to the river but there were none emerging on the far side. Cory and Stevens decided instead to follow the tracks of two riders who had ridden up after the wagons. As Cory reminded them: "They picked up the prisoner between two horsemen. After carrying him between them this far, they must have decide it was better to travel with him riding double on one of the horses."

 _It had been an amazingly skillful piece of riding and co-ordination_. Sherman remembered the fluid leap the boy had made and the sinuous grace with which he had balanced between his rescuers. The three of them seemed to blend together like one being as they swept out of the camp in a cloak of smoke and shadows. And there was something unmistakable about the absolute confidence and authority with which the horsemen had simply extracted their comrade from captivity.

Stevens said as much, pointing out that the two men were probably the leaders. "I'd say the best chance is to follow the tracks of these riders and ignore the rest."

Leaving the Gautier twins to round up the loose horses, Lieutenant Cory led them down into the river, crossing straight over and ignoring which way the wagons might have gone. They rode at a steady trot. The trail was clear, but meandered frustratingly, heading in no particular direction.

Sherman was uneasily aware the Rebel band had already demonstrated several times that they were masters of concealment, even in daylight. He had seen action before, of course, but never had he encountered an enemy like this. The battle at noon had been more of a running ambush, with men rising up from the rocks and the earth, striking and disappearing almost before their bullets had found their mark. The Union troops had been harried like a herd of elk driven by a wolf-pack and the persistence and uncanny co-operation of the Rebels argued that the nick-name was well given. So, although there appeared to be little cover here, it would be all too easy to miss another ambush and a single spy would be almost impossible to spot. He kept scanning their surroundings alertly.

This paid off not long after they had reached the wall of cliffs which rose from much rockier desert terrain. They had found wagon tracks heading in a southerly direction, which stopped abruptly, forcing them to retrace their steps. Riding to the rear, spread out in a line, Sherman and Jacquo and Maurice Gautier, who had by this time caught them up, were all scouring the land for clues, but found nothing for their vigilance. Presently Cory turned in his saddle and signaled to them to regroup.

Stevens was muttering in frustration at the lack of any sign and said: "That wagon was heading south. We'd better go on in the same direction – it's my best guess."

As they set off southwards once more, Sherman continued to check their surroundings carefully. Cliffs offered all sorts of hiding places for a lone gunman and a cave might provide refuge for more than one or even the wagon. There were no obvious gaps in the rocky wall until suddenly he spotted a darker patch of shadow between two curving buttresses. When he rode closer his sharp eyes caught the faintest mark in the sand and, bearing in mind how sound travelled at night, he called softly: "Here, sir!"

Cory reined his horse round and rode back a few paces. On closer inspection, the shadow proved to be the mouth of a narrow canyon, scarcely wide enough, it seemed, for more than a couple of horsemen to pass through.

"A horse stood here, sir." Sherman pointed to where he had spotted a single print, almost blurred to nothing by the encroaching dust and grit. There was no way to tell how old it was or which direction the horse had gone when it was ridden off.

Looking up the gorge, it was possible to see very little, but it appeared to continue just as narrow as the entrance, the sides deep-cloaked in darkness and only a faint strip of starlight touching the floor here and there in places. It did not look to Slim Sherman like a place to venture into without considerable caution, but the twins were more eager to catch the wagon than to think about the dangers.

"Shall we go investigate, sir?" They were already turning their horses to head up the canyon.

"No!" Cory reacted sharply. "We stick together. Splitting up would let them pick us off one at a time. And it only needs one man who's a good shot to hold that passage indefinitely."

With this estimate, Sherman heartily concurred. It would be suicide for a stranger, not knowing what to expect, to follow such a path. Disappointing though it was to abandon the first lead they'd had, it made no sense at all to risk getting shot at just for the sake of misplaced bravado in following the enemy recklessly through terrain which was all in their favour.

 _Reckless? The picture of that young Rebel sprang immediately to mind!_ Slim had no doubt that – had he been on their side - he would have been off his horse and sneaking his way up the canyon, like a slender moving shadow himself, before anyone could blink. But he was not on their side, so Slim's imagination visualised him riding up the dark canyon as if it was an open, grassy trail leading him home – but then it probably did. He belonged there and they did not.

"Continue south," Cory ordered.

They had not travelled a quarter of a mile when the scout pulled up with a furious exclamation. "Will you look at that!"

In front of them the wheel-tracks suddenly began again. The trail gave the impression that the wagon had simply been lifted into the sky by some giant eagle and only returned to earth at this point, far from its starting place. The scout was riled beyond belief by what he read in the sand: the wagon was now empty, for the team were running flat out, as if they'd been spooked, and the wagon was riding light behind them.

Cory agreed the wagon must have been methodically stripped of its contents. "Where they took them – who knows? But wherever it is, they started from that canyon."

Stevens nodded. "But you're right. Only a fool would go up there in the dark, not knowing what was waiting for him." He paused and then added something that Cory's men knew full well: "You ain't no fool, Lieutenant."

Cory grinned. "Neither are you, Stevens –" He turned to Slim and the twins, his grin even broader. "And these young hot-heads'll do as I say. At least, I think they will."

"If we know what's good for us!" they chorused at once. It was a phrase Mort was prone to use when he really wanted their compliance. They, in turn, were fond of ribbing him about it because they knew it sprang from his protective sense of responsibility for them.

It was Jacquo Gautier who raised the question: "So what do we do now?"

Sherman was surprised at this and, since their duty was definite, answered almost automatically: "Our orders are clear. We were told to find the wagons."

"So that's what we'll do," his Lieutenant affirmed. "At least, we'll try to find this one."

They continued in a southerly direction, riding spread out, abreast, in case any traces showed of riders joining the wagon. Sherman was on the outside, nearest the river, scanning the ground closely, although uneasily aware that this took his eyes off any potential attackers. Orders, however, were orders and he trusted Mort Cory's wisdom in deciding where they should focus their attention.

His scrutiny was shortly rewarded and he jumped down to take a closer look at what he had found. When Cory rode over to him, he held up the handful of bullets which gleamed silver in the starlight.

From behind them, Harris quipped: "We'll be callin' you 'Sharp-Eye', not 'Slim' if y' gonna keep doin' this!"

Slim was glad of the darkness, for he blushed as he shook his head in reproof at the older man's comment. Cory simply nodded and said briskly, "Put them in your saddlebag and mount up."

The bullets were almost certainly a tactic to delay their pursuit, Sherman realised, especially as they found several more handfuls. They stopped to pick these up since they could not afford to waste ammunition even if it seemed plentiful in camp. Finally they found the wagon, abandoned in the soft margins of the river, just deep enough to make it difficult to get to and, of course, there were just enough ammunition cases visible to ensure that they were forced to investigate whether there was anything left to salvage.

Sherman and the twins dismounted. It was up to them, as the youngest and most agile of the party, to investigate. The edge of the river was deep mud and getting their horses bogged down trying to ride out to the wagon would be stupid. Together they plunged into the cold, sludgy ooze and struggled their way over to the stranded wagon. It was listing dangerously, but Jacquo, who was the lightest of them, managed to scramble inside while Slim and Maurice leaned their weight against the side and tried to keep it from turning over. In no time, he re-emerged shaking his head and scowling. "Nothing but broken boxes!"

Thankfully the other two let the wagon tip and managed to jump out of the way as it lurched and submerged even further. Clearly it was no use hoping to salvage it, even if they had had horses to pull it. The original team had, of course, been cut loose and their tracks were causing Stevens to eat his hat again! Typical of the Rebel tactics, the horses seemed to have bolted, run in circles, cut across each other and, of course, mysteriously found the nearest hard ground where their hoof-prints made virtually no impression.

"They did everything bar dance in a line whistlin' _The Bonnie Blue Flag_!" Stevens reported in tones of disgust.

All they had to show for their investigations was three pairs of wet breeches and a distinct ache in the shoulders and arms of two of the party. The three young men just shook themselves like dogs and remounted briskly, without complaint. What they had to do to find the wagons, they were prepared to do, although it was far from comfortable riding in wet pants. But they were achieving nothing which could possibly aid the beleaguered troop and so the order was given to turn northwards again.

"Spread out!" the Lieutenant ordered. "We'll back-track as far as the canyon. I want to know if the smallest pebble is out of place or the least leaf damaged. Call halt if there is the slightest hint that we might have missed something."

They saw nothing but their own prints and all they were got for their efforts was sore eyes and stiff necks. At length, the party drew to a halt once more and considered the dark gateway to the mountains. The twins were eager to tackle the canyon, although their enthusiasm was tempered by respect for Cory's decisions. For his part, Slim Sherman simply applied his well-grounded common sense – and he had already decided it made no sense at all to ride into total darkness and an unknown number of well-hidden enemies. Like the three older men, he was prepared to wait patiently for orders based on a considered decision about whether to risk the canyon or try their luck to the north or return to camp.

Presently Cory said: "They abandoned the empty wagons where they'd cause us maximum effort to examine. Even if we find the second one, there won't be anything in it but a load of trouble and wasted time." After further consideration, he ordered: "Back to base!"

Stevens looked hard at him and reminded him: "The Captain expects us to find the wagons." Sherman did not know the Captain at all, but the combination of Steven's nervousness and the way Blake had been handling the interrogation of the prisoner, suggested that he was not a man to tolerate negative results. His suspicions were confirmed almost at once, when Stevens asked: "You gonna risk how he'll feel about it?"

Cory responded with what his corporal knew was characteristic measured reasoning. "It isn't a matter of feelings. It's a matter of the evidence. We've done our duty as efficiently as we can. I am prepared to be held fully accountable for my decision."

Stevens looked deeply worried and, after more protests, drew a deep breath as if struggling about whether to give his real opinion. It was almost impossible not to see Mort's genuine decency and concern for others. Slim knew by his next words that Stevens had developed enough respect for Mort to trust him.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"What is it, Stevens?"

"The Captain, sir. I've served under him for the last six months. He ain't …" The man hesitated again. "He ain't carryin' the responsibility like he did at the beginning. Since we've been on this campaign, well, not wishin' to sound disrespectful, but some of his decisions have been …" He was obviously searching for a word which wouldn't get him court-marshalled and finally settled for: "Odd!"

Slim knew Mort would feel for the man, for the dilemma he faced and his concern for the leadership he was under, but that, as a superior officer, he could not enter into discussion of their Captain's competence. He was not surprised when Mort just replied coolly and authoritatively: "I can't act on hearsay, Stevens. How your troop has been commanded in the past is outside my jurisdiction. But we are returning right now because it best serves the troop and my contingent."

And that was what they did.

Jogging over the flat land to the river, seeing the trails criss-crossing it like a ravelled skein of rope, Slim Sherman was thinking deeply about the complexities of war. When he had left home to join the Wyoming regiment, it had seemed a simple matter of right and wrong. Not so much political right and wrong, although however big the country, political division would undermine its strength and its hardly won independence. No, it was the wrong done to human beings which concerned Slim. He was absolutely certain that, whatever had happened in history, in the new land of the free, every man should be free. How was it, then, that suddenly he found himself feeling understanding for his enemy? Suddenly able to see that the love binding together human families and the freedom of one individual were as important as a universal principle, even if honouring them broke military laws?

Slim was fundamentally and unshakably honest – about his own motives and feelings as about any other matter. Equally suddenly he saw that the young Rebel was like the brothers he had never had, filling the gap left by the death of his younger siblings. And he recognised the pain of separation which had struck his heart as he looked at Guerra's face when he let his brother go. He remembered parting with his own younger brother, Andy, and Andy's face as his big brother rode away to war. Slim would do anything to protect and give life and freedom to his brother, whatever it cost himself. He knew that the same deep love burned in Guerra and that, however those two brothers had become separated, the bond of blood between them was stronger than any other call.

His thoughts were echoed when Mort, riding alongside him, suddenly said quietly: "Sergeant Guerra was acting only in obedience to orders. He was reluctant to carry out that flogging. It was not just."

Slim looked up in surprise. Mort was obviously thinking about their return to the camp and what state of discipline they might find there. Although he would never criticise his superiors before the men, Slim knew the lack of strong leadership and responsible authority would sit ill with him. His next words came as a complete surprise.

"I didn't want to leave him there, in such a condition, ignored when he needed medical attention."

"What condition?" Slim's heart sank in foreboding.

"He was unconscious. But no-one seemed to care. The Captain believes he let the prisoner go deliberately. And Guerra was unable to answer the accusation."

Slim was seized by horror. He had tried to help, but it seemed he had only made things worse. He had rendered Guerra incapable of defending himself when he most needed to. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do to change that situation or take back the blow which had brought it about. All the comfort he had was the few strands of rope in his pocket.

Mort was continuing softly, almost as if thinking aloud: "Regardless of what he has or hasn't done, he's a human being who deserves to be treated with compassion and justice. He has integrity, loyalty and a profound care for his comrades. And a clear sense of the duties of his rank. He deserves better." There was a long pause and then he whispered: "We are greater than this war, this strife between brothers, that sacrifices everything, good, bad and indifferent on the altar of division. Surely there is a better use for faith and loyalty than to tear at each other's throats until one or other has all the power bled out of them? "

If Slim had not already decided that he would tell Mort the truth about the whole incident and his own part in it, this passionate plea for sanity would have moved him to do so. As it was, it simply deepened his trust in his old friend's wisdom and understanding. But now was not the time …

They were splashing through the river and soon broke into a gallop, heading for the mouth of the valley. As they came over the little ridge which divided the valley from its mouth and the camp beyond, Cory flung up a hand in the signal to halt. It was Stevens who expressed all their views with unconscious irony:

"What the blazes is happenin'?"

The entire camp was lit by a ring of fire.

 **#####**

It was an unbelievable sight. Fires had been lit at intervals round the perimeter of the camp – challenging to anyone trying to mount an offensive but effectively leaving the men on guard blind to attack. Their approach was difficult. They could not trust the watchers not to shoot randomly at any movement nor could they call out identifying themselves without giving away how to get into the camp. There was no way of knowing whether the camp was still under surveillance by the enemy and it would be stupid to ignore the possibility.

Slim was just wondering whether they would be bivouacked outside the perimeter until dawn made their identity clear, when they managed to establish contact, passed the challenge given and were allowed to ride in. The whole procedure was so chancy that he dreaded to think what would have happened had they been Confederates instead of members of the troop. The enemy was full of cunning and the poor communications and discipline in the troop such that he would not rule out someone letting in the wrong riders. As it was, he just heaved a sigh of relief, hoping to get back to the tent, change his wet clothes and perhaps even snatch some rest before whatever the next day would bring.

But he could not get out of his mind what Mort had told him about Guerra. _What was happening to the man?_ Slim knew he could never rest quiet until he found the answer to that question.

All at once, the answer was staring him in the face.

Cory and Stevens had been about to report back Captain Blake. As they dismounted, the behaviour of a group of men around one of the nearby fires caught Mort's attention. He made a sound of mixed anger and distress, handed Slim his horse and beckoned Stevens to follow him as he strode swiftly towards them.

There was the kind of silence surrounding the little group by the fire which was unmistakable. The silence that brutality breeds when it is exercised unchecked and unopposed. The silence of men biting their tongues to keep from admitting their horror and guilt. As Cory and Stevens approached the group seemed to huddle together as if driven to self-defence by the shame they felt.

Slim saw Mort Cory grab two of the soldiers and force them apart. The circle opened up and even from where he was, Slim could see the hellish scene which was being enacted. It was as if he was watching the interrogation of the young Rebel all over again, but this was far, far worse.

Guerra was being held up by two others or he would probably have collapsed. The skin of his back and ribs was raw with beating and where the blood was not running, the black marks of many burns told their own tale. It seemed impossible that a man could stand such agony and yet Guerra was still conscious, still breathing, still silent.

"Stop right there!" Mort's voice rang out in commanding fury.

The other Sergeant, Taylor, froze. Slim's guts clenched in horror as he realised the hot iron he was wielding had stopped only inches from Guerra's stomach.

"Put it down, Taylor."

The speed with which the Sergeant obeyed suggested that he was totally relieved to be prevented from any further action by a higher authority. Perhaps what he had been ordered to do was as repugnant to him as it had been to the man he was torturing.

"Captain Blake's orders, sir!" Taylor sounded as if he was reminding Lieutenant Cory of their mutual accountability.

"Consider the orders fulfilled," Mort told him softly.

"Captain'll expect a report," Taylor pointed out. Slim dreaded to think how the Captain would react, since the punishment did not seem to have made Guerra speak. It had been evident, even without being able to hear his orders, that Blake had been furiously angry with the stubborn resistance of the young prisoner. Guerra showed the same indomitable courage in the face of all that could be done to him. _Evidently it ran in the family!_

"Then we will report to him."

Taylor hesitated, perhaps knowing that his skin might be next for the lash.

"Now!" Mort's voice snapped out an icy command and was obeyed.

Cory and Stevens stood over the other men until they reluctantly moved towards the Captain's tent. They were half-carrying, half-dragging the man from whom they had been trying to force a confession. As the firelight flickered over their faces, Slim saw nothing but horror and shame at what they had done to their own comrade.

He stood utterly still for what seemed like an endless time, holding the three horses and biting his lip in an effort to overcome the need just to vomit. He was utterly revolted by what he had witnessed. But it was not the physical horror alone which made his stomach lurch, sending foul bile into his throat. It was the knowledge of his own guilt which appalled him. _This was his fault. He had incapacitated Guerra_. _He had laid him open to torture without any chance of defending himself._

But Slim was cut from a stern and realistic fabric. He could not take back the past. But he did have a duty to the future, the future of this man he had tried to help. He could not undo what had been done, by him or by others. He could only try to alleviate the present suffering and to prevent more. This he would do, no matter what the cost to himself.

He urged the horses briskly back to the tent. Once he had hobbled them securely, he went in, ignoring the queries from the others about what Mort was doing. Automatically he pulled on a dry uniform, before finding a clean undershirt to use for a wash-cloth and picking up a full canteen of water. His tall figure was silhouetted momentarily against the doorway as his head went up and his shoulders braced for action. Then he moved swiftly away into the shadows of the camp.

 **#####**

The open space outside the Captain's tent was surprisingly crowded. There were men gathering. Not just the men who had been involved in the interrogation of Guerra, but other individuals, drifting quietly through the dark approaches, lingering on the fringes of the situation, hesitant, yet unwilling to ignore what was going on. There was an atmosphere of fear and tension, as if the onlookers realised how easily this could become their own fate. They seemed in some measure to share the blame and the pain, without a word spoken.

Without speaking either, Slim simply and gently moved some of the men aside so that he could make his way to the front of the crowd. There was a wide space around the body of the man slumped on his knees, his head bowed almost to the ground. Now Slim was so close, the firelight and torches revealed all too clearly that his skin was lacerated with many lashes and savagely burned on the most sensitive parts of his body. But he was breathing. Breathing slowly, with long, drawn-out ragged breaths.

Slim did not hesitate or hover on the edge of the crowd. He moved swiftly to Guerra's side and knelt down. The linen which he had brought with him he ripped into several pieces, the sound startlingly harsh in the hush surrounding the tent. He moistened the first piece and raised the injured man's head with a gentle hand. His wounds almost everywhere else cried out for attention, but first Slim wanted to give him back his dignity - his ability and his right to face his accusers. And the face he lifted up was calm. Uncannily calm and expressionless. As if Guerra no longer existed on the blood-stained grass, but in a place far beyond the reach of his tormentors.

Softly, carefully, Slim sponged away the blood. Fresh blood from recent blows and old, dried blood from the punch with which he himself had laid out Guerra, the bruising from which had spread a massive shadow over the man's jaw and cheek. Slim applied more water until the sergeant's face was clean.

Then he turned his attention to the wheals and cuts caused by the lashing. He soon realised he could not apply enough pressure to stop the blood flowing, for both skin and some of the underlying muscle were sufficiently damaged that it would add to the agony rather than helping. Instead he turned his attention to the burns, damping the cloth over and over again, in the hope that the cool water would take away at least some of the fiery pain. All he could do seemed so inadequate. His mind flashed back to his home, to the gentle nursing his mother gave to the sick and injured and to the strange but effective herbal remedies concocted by their trail cook, Jonesy. What he would not have given to have their skill now!

Slim was concentrating utterly on tending to Guerra. Nonetheless, he was aware of the atmosphere radiating from inside Captain Blake's headquarters, an atmosphere of rage and hatred - and of madness. Words and phrases drifted out to his ears, the Captain's voice raised and harsh, the replies muted and reasonable.

"Sergeant, apply the irons. Now!"

Slim's hand stilled for a moment over the burn he was bathing. Surely they could not begin this again?

"…already have, sir."

"Nonsense! I heard nothing."

" … didn't make a sound the whole time."

Blake swore and the chair crashed to the ground as he leapt up in anger. "… incompetent … do I have to do everything myself …?"

"Taylor was most efficient." That was Mort's voice subtly conveying his distaste and disapproval of the whole proceeding.

Taylor's voice came clearly too. "He's outside, sir. You can see for yourself what we … tried."

Just for a moment, Slim's attention shifted as the angry Captain pushed past his subordinates and led the way out of the tent. Crouched on the ground as he was, all he really saw were booted feet striding towards him. And beyond them, just at the edge of the tent, where it met the ground, he thought he caught the slightest movement.

It was as if the shadow itself had come alive or the earth had moved and shifted its position. Slim could see nothing but the black contours of the ground and the contrasting white of the tent canvas. But he was sure there had been something. Once, long ago, when he was just a carefree boy exploring his father's ranch, he had watched a cougar stalking a deer. Seen the way its body flattened and flowed, moulding itself to every inch of the ground, sliding silently forward, blending totally with its territory until he was not sure which was the animal and which was the rock. He had exactly the same feeling now. He had seen something which he could not see.

But he scarcely had time to take it in before the realisation that someone was caring for his prisoner snapped the last controls on Blake's fury. He erupted with the full force of his displeasure and his authority.

"What do you think you are doing!" His voice rang out like a lash.

Slim froze in mid-action. But he was not going to be intimidated or deterred from the task he had set himself. He leapt to his feet and Blake found himself confronted with six foot three of immovable integrity and care topped with icy blue eyes which left no doubt about what the blonde corporal was feeling. All Slim's duty and obedience hung on a knife-edge of pure challenge.

"Attention, soldier!" Mort's voice steadied him, commanding but not intimidating. "Report. Account for your actions."

"Sir! Prisoner collapsed. Without attention, could not speak to give information." Slim's voice, fueled with his own rage against injustice and cruelty, came out harsher and higher than his normal warm, steady tones.

"Very perceptive, corporal." Captain Blake stamped over impatiently to examine the prisoner. He looked as if he would like to kick the man on the ground at his feet, but obviously restrained himself with difficulty. Instead he snarled: "However, you do not seem to have revived him. You are dismissed!"

"Sir!" Slim saluted and strode away. There was no other option without defying a direct order. The thud of his boots reverberated through the ground and drummed in his ears as he berated himself for leaving Guerra at the mercy of his tormentors once more.

Behind him, he caught the Captain's next words, which contrived to sound bored, but underneath this superficial impression, his voice was filled with frustration and desire for vengeance. "I grow tired of this affair. We can ill afford to waste our rest on this miserable traitor. Let us sleep. But let us ensure that he does not!"

The ensuing pause was so deadly quiet that the faint sound of Slim's retreating footsteps seemed to echo in the silence. Then Blake's voice came again.

"I think he can spend the night," he pronounced coldly, "in irons. Beyond the hospital tent, there is a dead tree. It has a convenient branch at just the right height to chain a man so that he can neither stand nor rest. Hang him in chains! Do it!"

There was a flurry of action as the men hastened to obey. Slim halted in his tracks. _Would this task be assigned to Mort? And would he obey if it was?_

 **#####**

It was only a few minutes later that Mort came walking briskly towards him through the darkened camp. Slim knew him so well. He could tell just by the set of his shoulders and the decisiveness of his stride that Mort too was incensed, despite the calm reason he had maintained since they joined this new troop.

With some trepidation about what might be ordered next, Slim stepped into his path. Mort pulled up short when he saw him. For a moment Slim thought he was going to say something about Guerra and Slim's involvement in doctoring him, but instead Mort just put a hand on his shoulder and gave him an affirmative, affectionate shake.

"We must reallocate the perimeter guards. They can't all stay on watch all night. And we need proper rosters and clear information from each area. Cut back to the tent and bring the others here. Go!"

Slim found himself sprinting down the line of tents. His comrades were still alert and ready, despite the arduous search they had just completed. Until their Lieutenant returned, they were not going to stand down. In no time at all, they had re-joined Mort and received his orders to act as messengers between the various sections of the camp and ensure that he remained fully informed at all times.

Together Mort and Slim checked each of the fires, adjusting the number and position of those on watch, checking responsibilities and communications and advising on how to cope with the unhelpful blaze of light. With these changes to the guard, some of the men were able to rest for a while, although it did not seem likely that anyone would sleep much. The events of the day and the night had been too traumatic.

It was obvious when you were used, as Slim was, to a proper command structure and well-ordered discipline, that there was a profound uneasiness amongst the men. Slim noticed how Mort was working to gain their trust and bolster their morale by his own calm and encouraging presence and words; it was what he would have done too, had he been the one in authority. That was part of the problem – the men knew there was no longer the authority to which they were accustomed to respond.

As they made their way back to their own tent at the end of their duties, Slim observed: "They're missing their Sergeant. From what I've heard, everyone trusted and liked him."

Mort nodded quietly, giving his most sincere accolade. "He was a conscientious and efficient officer."

Slim knew the time had come when he had to tell Mort the whole truth. He owed nothing less to his friend, as well as to his superior officer, and to Guerra himself. Halting in a dark shadow thrown between two of the fires, he said equally quietly, "He was more than that."

Mort looked at him as if he sensed Slim had something more to share on the subject. But he asked no questions. He just waited patiently, allowing Slim time to choose what he would say. This simple act of trust strengthened Slim's resolve to speak honestly and truthfully about how his sense of justice and loyalty had led him to act.

"He was a brother. The Rebel prisoner. They were brothers."

"Are you sure?"

"The loose horses stopped me joining you at first," Slim reminded Mort. "Guerra and the prisoner were left standing, bound together. I saw them recognise each other. The boy flung his arms round Guerra, gave him a desperate hug. Guerra had to break the embrace, hold him off at arms' length."

The picture was so vivid in his mind he felt as if he had actually been part of it, had met those eyes, been seized in that embrace. _How hard it was to cut yourself off from your own brother!_ His heart contracted with pain at the mere thought of severing himself in any such way, but he went on with his account.

"Then two riders galloped down on them. The boy let Guerra go. He ran and jumped. Somehow they grabbed him and he just balanced on the stirrups between the horses. I've never seen anything like the way they swept him up, carried him off into the night."

"Yes, I saw them," Mort agreed. "But how are you so sure they really are brothers?"

"I asked," Slim said simply. "I thought it was like the bit in the Book of Proverbs, where it speaks of brotherhood which comes to life out of shared adversity. But he said no. He just stood there, gazing after the boy as if he'd seen a ghost, as if they'd been parted for a long, long time. He said he was a brother born of the same blood."

He gulped, remembering the blood dripping from Guerra's hands and soaking his shirt. His brother had been bleeding freely as a result of the lashing he had received. Received from the hands of someone who loved him enough to save his life and risk their own. Guerra had literally had his brother's blood on his hands. Yet somehow the physical reality and all its pain seemed to be nothing to either of them. It was as if they simply set it aside, to be dealt with later. What had been so clear was the burning intensity of the tie with which that blood bound them. Nothing else had mattered.

"That explains a great deal," Mort commented thoughtfully. "But Guerra was picked up unconscious."

"The boy hit him. I think Guerra must have told him to, so he wouldn't be suspected." Slim paused for a second, but he was resolute in his intention to be honest and continued: "I haven't had a chance to tell you this yet, sir, but the boy couldn't bring himself to hit hard enough, even if it meant saving his brother. I knocked Guerra out."

He scarcely had time to fear the result of this confession, for without hesitation Mort reached out and again laid a firm hand on his shoulder. "You're off duty now, Slim. And it's Mort, not sir. The Rebels would have rescued the boy, regardless of what you or Guerra did."

This was true enough – Slim had recognised instantly in his fleeting glimpse of the two riders not just supreme planning and capability, but an utterly unshakable loyalty and determination. It was, however, not the only factor at play in this story. A grim frown flashed across Slim's face. "I doubt if Captain Blake would see it that way. He was looking for evidence to prove Guerra let the prisoner escape right from the start."

"But there isn't any evidence," Mort pointed out.

"Not anymore." Slim reached into his pocket and held out the cut pieces of rope. "He cut this. He is guilty, but I would do the same again. And I think you would too, Mort."

Mort considered this carefully, as Slim knew he would. It was a simple, blessed relief when the older man slowly nodded his head. "And despite what you or I have done to prevent the consequences, Guerra has suffered terribly. Enough for any offence!"

"But he suffered willingly for his brother." Slim's eyes were gleaming as he thought of the battered body to which he had just been ministering. _Would he have the courage to risk as much for Andy? He hoped so. And he prayed that he would never have to make such a choice._

"And still is!"

In both their minds was the single thought that there had been no fair trial and that the brutal treatment of Guerra must be stopped. He had not ridden off with the Rebels when he could have escaped, which in itself seemed to suggest he was not acting in collusion with them. If he had tried to disguise what he had done for his brother, it was hard to blame him. And the physical consequences of his act of brotherhood were, as Mort had pointed out, still going on.

Slim knew that he could not simply go back to the tent and take his own rest and ignore the man hanging in agony only a few hundred yards away.

"And I'm still off duty, aren't I?" he demanded.

"Indeed you are. It's been a long night – and a dark one."

"It's not over until the dawn." Slim thrust the rope back into his pocket and stood facing Mort squarely, his head up and his shoulders flung back in fervent determination. "And I still have something to do!"

 **#####**

It seemed as if Mort was about to speak, to issue a command preventing him from whatever he intended. Slim was in no doubt that the Captain had taken against him too and might well have been given orders to his Lieutenant about keeping him in check, maybe even arresting or restraining him.

But they were both off duty now. Mort said nothing. He just looked Slim straight in the eyes, understanding and compassion shining in his own. His thoughts were as clear as if he had spoken, for both of them knew that Slim was risking severe punishment and that Mort could be held responsible for his subordinate's actions. But responsibility was never something Mort Cory shirked. He made no move to stop his young friend, just turned away and walked quietly in the direction of their own tent.

There was no time to lose. Slim ran swiftly to the hospital tent. It was relatively quiet now, the injuries having been treated and sleep or laudanum having blunted the suffering somewhat, for these men at least. The orderlies in charge just nodded in greeting as Slim briefly stopped by the beds of the three men in his own troop; they remembered his concerned presence from earlier in the evening. There was no comment or attempt to intervene as he made his way to the end of the tent, where the doctors kept medical supplies in a small annex. It also happened to serve them as an administration area.

The troop had two doctors, but only one was on duty now. He looked up as Slim pushed through the flap dividing the two areas. "Corporal Sherman. What can I do for you tonight?"

Slim had always found that the truth worked best in most situations. As far as he could, he told the truth now. "We need some medical supplies. Nothing too much, just salve and bandages. Anything you've got to clean wounds with."

The doctor shot him a curious look, but got to his feet. "I'll see what I can do."

"I know we can't expect much," Slim continued, "given that you need most of it to treat the men brought in here, but we like to be prepared in the field."

"No bad thing," the doctor agreed.

"Yeah. At home we have an old trail cook and he's always brewing up remedies - herbs and roots and the like – things which are good for easing pain and encouraging healing, so I'm used to dealing with most problems myself."

"Pity we don't have time to make natural medicines on campaign," the doctor grinned, "but I can just see the Captain's face if I told him we'd got to stay put while something fermented." As he mentioned Blake's probable reaction, something clouded his expression and he bit his lip as if to take back the words.

"I guess I can't wait that long either," Slim joked to ease the tension. "I'll just take whatever you can spare for now."

"To ease pain and encourage healing …" The doctor was watching him closely. Slim just nodded and the man turned away and began to select items to put into a small pack. When he had finished, he handed it over with an unexpected sigh.

"Thanks, doc!" Slim took it and moved towards the door.

"Sherman!"

Slim turned back at the sound of his name.

The doctor was holding out a small phial. "Take this. And take care how you use it. We don't have that much."

Their hands touched briefly as Slim reached out, took the phial and stowed it in the pocket of his tunic. Their eyes met with understanding.

"Good luck!" the doctor told him.

"Thanks!" Slim patted his pocket and said again, "Thanks!"

Once outside, he next appropriated a leather bucket and filled it with the cleanest water he could find. Then he drew a deep breath and began to walk slowly and quietly towards the edge of the camp. Ahead of him he could see, outlined against the flames of nearby fires, the dead branches of a tree – the tree –

It was too much to expect he could just march up and get on with what he had come to do. He was so preoccupied with how to gain access to Guerra at all that he almost walked slap into a man coming in the opposite direction.

Recognising the man's rank, Slim hastily pulled himself together and saluted. "Sergeant Taylor, sir!"

"Corporal." Taylor returned the salute but remained blocking Slim's way. After a nerve-wracking pause, he said: "You're one of Cory's men?"

"Yes, sir."

Taylor looked Slim up and down, taking in the bucket and the pack over his shoulder, as well as the canteen which he was still carrying.

He said nothing.

Slim said nothing either.

They remained face to face in the darkness.

Just as Slim was wondering if time had, in fact, stood still, Taylor gave a shrug, as if coming to some kind of decision. "Stay here!" he ordered. "Don't move till I come back."

He turned on his heel and strode back into the darkness surrounding the dead tree. It wasn't an ideal place to guard a prisoner, being in deep shadow and isolated from the rest of the camp. The perimeter at this point had been extended outwards to take account of a slight protective rise in the ground, but the nearest fires were a good twenty feet in either direction. Slim remembered that Mort had not inspected this part of the guard because Taylor was officially on duty and responsible for the prisoner.

Not far away, he heard Taylor's voice, issuing orders. "I want the four of you facing the perimeter at all times. Keep your eyes on the boundary and be ready for an attack. We don't know what those damn Rebs are going to do and we can't chance anything. Captain Blake'll have your hides just like his if they get him away!"

"Yes, sir!"

Slim heard the men moving, then Taylor's voice again.

"I want your eyes scanning every inch. Don't be distracted by anything. Particularly what you hear me doing behind you. Don't turn round. Don't look. Because you don't want to know. Not if you want to sleep quiet at night!"

"Sir!"

Silence fell.

Taylor suddenly reappeared in front of Slim.

They were face to face once again.

Taylor turned his head and looked over his shoulder. He turned back and locked eyes with Slim once more.

"I'm on guard this side. I'm not looking either."

"Thanks!" The word was barely whispered, lest the sound travel to the other guards. As he spoke, Slim stepped past Taylor and crept silently up to the tree.

 **#####**

Guerra was unconscious. He was slumped forward, his entire weight hanging from his arms, which were cruelly twisted behind him. He had no other support because his feet were barely scraping the ground. His wrists were manacled and the chains had been wound several times round the stout branch before being padlocked together.

Slim carefully put down his bucket, took off the pack and opened it, laid the canteen to hand. When this was done, he turned his attention to the prisoner.

His first instinct was to loose the chains and let the man breath freely. The way he had been fastened was tantamount to crucifixion and he was not going to last until someone came to take him down at dawn!

He very soon discovered that this was impossible. Guerra's weight pulled his bonds tight. Slim could lift him up a little and ease the strain, but there was no way to prevent the chains pulling taut again as soon as he released his support. If he was lifting, he could not slide the chains on the branch and, if he was not, they bit fiercely into the wood. The end of this particular tree limb was jagged with other broken branches and the chains could not be forced over them, even if Slim had been able to balance Guerra's body and move them at the same time.

The task was impossible! But Slim Sherman was not deterred by impossibilities. _He just had to think of a way round them!_ Meanwhile, he could do what he had come to do – wash and treat the wounds and try to get some of the precious laudanum, so unexpectedly contributed by the doctor, down his patient. Thinking about this gift and about the men who had gathered around Guerra, it was clear that there was far more sympathy for the sergeant amongst his fellows than might have been imagined.

First he began by using the water to sponge away the worst of the blood, which had continued to seep, despite his previous efforts. The doctor had provided gauze and clean linen, enabling Slim to dry the wounds delicately before beginning to apply the healing salve over them. Bandaging was another impossibility – he just didn't have enough to do more than dress the deeper cuts on Guerra's arms and legs, as well as covering up some of the burns. So he worked gently and methodically, taking care over each section and, at intervals, pausing to give the hanging man support so that he could keep breathing.

When he had done this several times, Guerra shuddered and drew in a long, rasping breath. His face lifted and he peered at Slim through the swelling which was forcing his eyes into mere slits.

"Y-ou!"

"Yes."

"Brother!"

His eyes closed again, but he still seemed to be conscious. The effort of speaking was just too much.

Slim was deeply moved by the word Guerra had said. It had not been a question, concerned with the brother he had helped escape. It was a statement, recognising the brother he saw before him. Slim bent his head, praying fervently that they would both come through this and live to find peace beyond. Then he simply continued treating the wounds.

Such was Slim's concentration that he was aware of very little else. He was not even conscious of the guards, who could not be more than a few feet away. He just trusted in their obedience to Taylor's orders, that they would be fully occupied looking towards the boundary of the camp and ignore whatever noise he was making.

There was no warning sound.

Suddenly his hair was seized in a vicious grasp and pulled back so that his throat was totally exposed.

" _Nitis_!" Guerra gasped at the same instant.

The razor-sharp knife stopped so close to Slim's throat that he felt a trickle of blood run down his neck to his collar.

" _Nitis_!" Guerra whispered again.

The grip on Slim's hair did not lessen. He felt the knife being sheathed into someone's belt. A sinewy arm pinned his own to his sides. The hand in his hair transferred to clamp his mouth shut. He could hardly breathe from the pressure. His blood was thundering so loudly he thought his head would burst and it was impossible to think clearly. All he knew was that he had just escaped death by less than the breadth of a hair.

A single word from Guerra had saved him. What word, he did not know. Stop – no - brother – friend? It could be any of these. Whatever it was, it had halted the murderous knife, wielded by someone whose reflexes must be as sharp as its blade.

Whoever that person was, he could feel from their grip that they were immensely strong. The body behind him was like whip-cord and iron and seemed to be barely clothed. A faint aroma of sandstone and cinnamon and crushed sage stole into his nostrils. They moved absolutely silently; even the breath in his ear was low, even and controlled. No more words were spoken, but Slim had a distinct sense that his captor was in rapid communication with someone.

The next instant, he was swung away from Guerra. He blinked in total surprise. He was face to face with an Indian brave. And it was only another blink to realise that a second one was holding him immobile. … Who were they? Comanche? Apache? He knew full well the reputation of both tribes, but he had come across Comanche at one of the transit camps on the way south. These men were different. He took in bronze skin, piercingly dark eyes above carved cheek-bones, dark straight hair caught under a twisted band of coloured cloth. The Comanche he had seen had braided their hair.

 _Had the rumours been true? Were they being harassed by renegade Apache? No! His recollection of the men he had seen left no doubt that they were Confederates. Why then would such warriors be freeing a Yankee prisoner? It didn't make sense!_

It might not make sense to Slim, but these warriors were in total command of the situation and acted together without hesitation. The one he was looking at glanced over his shoulder and jerked his head, as if in a signal to someone else.

Before Slim's astounded eyes, part of the dark night moved and separated and revealed itself as a human being. He was looking at a tall man, well over Slim's six foot three. Once he must have been full-muscled and, although now he had that tell-tale Rebel leanness, he was still bigger and tougher than anyone Slim had ever seen. His head was shaved and his arms and shoulders showed the ridges of many old scars. And his skin was totally black.

The man stepped towards Slim and suddenly there was a foot-long blade in his hand.

 _I'm fighting to free you!_ Slim's dazed mind screamed. This was a Negro. A slave whose freedom was as dear as his own. _This man was going to kill him without realising what_ _he_ -

Slim's thoughts skidded to a halt. It was all wrong. This man was fighting on the wrong side. He was rescuing the wrong person. It made no sense! No more sense than the presence of the two Apache, who, to the best of Slim's knowledge, should be hundreds of miles away to the south. _It could not be happening. He was not going to lose his life at the hands of one he was trying to free!_

His thoughts must have reached his throat, for his mouth was struggling to yell a protest against the ferocious grip on his face. Displeasure hissed in his ear and the grip tightened even further, pinching his nostrils shut so that he could barely breathe at all. His vision spun wildly, sparks flaring against his eyeballs. He half-saw, half-felt the massive Negro drift silently past him, moving with unbelievable lightness. The knife was applied not Slim's body but to the thick branch of the tree.

Slim sagged with relief and the Apache restraining him loosened his grip very slightly, turning them both so that he could watch what was going in. The other brave had added his knife to the efforts to saw through the branch. To do so without making any noise required infinite patience and controlled strength.

Behind them a fourth person moved like a shadow and with no more noise than any of the others. Slim could not see who it was because his head was still forced backwards and all that was in his line of sight was the two knives and the obdurate branch. The silent way they moved suggested another Apache. He sensed this new person bending over to examine the content of the bag the doctor had given him but was unable to see what they were doing. He hoped they were not wrecking the contents, for he knew that the medicines and their uses would be unfamiliar to a brave.

The sawing of the branch was not going well. Despite the calm, deliberate way the two men were working, the tension in the group was palpable. Even Slim was willing the wood to give way and Guerra to be freed. It was totally ironic that none of the rescuers realised this.

The Apache holding him shifted impatiently and seemed to come to a quick decision. The next thing Slim knew his shirt had been yanked up over his face and the material stuffed ruthlessly in his mouth. His arms were dragged behind his head and a swift twist of the material pinioned him effectively. He felt the little phial of laudanum slip out of his pocket and slide down his body to land in the grass at his feet. He could only pray it had not broken and someone would understand what it was for.

There was a movement in the air in front of him. A sense of someone bending down. They had picked up the phial. He knew it! In the man's total stillness, he felt a sudden surge of joyful recognition, as vivid as the tension in them all. Inside he heaved a sigh of relief. Someone knew the drug and how to use it.

All at once, there was a further change in the way he was immobilised and gagged. The brave who had been holding him shifted to the left and another man took his place. Slim could not tell if this was a fifth member of the group or the one who had opened the medicine pack. He thought probably the latter. The fourth man had looked at the medicines. And he was probably the one who had picked up the phial. If he was so close to Slim already, it was logical that he should be the one to take his captor's place, while the Apache added his knife to the assault on the branch.

Besides, because he could not see, all Slim's other senses were heightened. He was aware that the one now holding him was smaller. Aware of the slender frame, lean-hard and half-naked as the others, close behind him. Aware that the body-scent was different – sweat and leather and a tang of cigarette smoke. Aware that this was a very young man …

 _Of course! The brother! Why had he not jumped to this before? And how on earth did the boy come to be in the company of two Apache and a Negro slave?_

And he was aware of the equally powerful grip and the equally indomitable strength of the younger brother, who was now restraining him. He was under no illusion that the change meant he had any chance of breaking free. Here was no boy, but one who ranked with the fiercest fighters the country boasted. In itself it was a mystery, but it was the implications of this encounter which stunned him most.

 _Brother! Guerra had named Slim 'brother'. Did that make him brother to this one too? Would he live to see the day they could call each other 'brother' face to face?_

It did not seem that he was destined to die today. Not in these hands, at any rate. They would not have taken the trouble to silence and restrain him if they had intended to kill him. But they could not let him loose either. The fact that he was gagged argued a suspicion he might still raise the alarm, so they would have to leave him tied up at the very least. It was only at this point that Slim wondered what had happened to the four men on guard. The knife which had nearly slit his own throat did not argue that they could still be alive. No-one had cried _Friend_ for them!

His heart was heavy. Men killed and were killed in war, by chance as well as by intention. No-one deserved to die, but many did. And some lived for whom death would be a release. And some lived whom others would willingly punish with death. These men had died in the course of their duty, an honourable death which every man in the army could expect. They had been on guard, ordered to prevent the enemy's action and the enemy had outwitted them. Had they died in punishment also, because of what they had done to Guerra? Slim did not know. He was just filled with pity and horror at a war which Mort had rightly said set humans tearing each other in the name of virtues like freedom and family love.

His thoughts seemed to have lasted for hours, but in fact it was a few bare minutes since he had been seized and held by the young Rebel. Now his hearing, above all the senses, was sharpened preternaturally. He could hear the irregular, shallow breathing of the man behind him and almost, it seemed, hear the rapid beating of his heart. He could hear the sibilant whisper of the knives on the wood – the faintest clink of the chains as someone lifted Guerra to help him breath – the creak from too much pressure on the branch. He could imagine the struggle to keep silence and yet to force the timber to yield.

Yield it did at last! He was aware of powerful movement in front of him. A sense of someone taking the weight of both timber and man as the branch finally parted in two. It was the big Negro, he guessed. The man's incredible strength was obvious from the briefest glimpse. Of all of them, he was the one who would be most able to hold up half a tree and let his companions carefully pull off the chains. They must have done so incredibly cautiously, for there was no sound. But Slim knew Guerra was finally free – he could feel the relief in the young man close at his back, even though the hold on him slackened not one iota.

Abruptly he was swung round in the other direction. They must be moving Guerra towards the camp boundary. The hands securing his arms behind his head gave him a forceful thrust and he stumbled forward, shuffling his feet as quietly as he could, hoping desperately not to trip over obstructions he could not see.

His foot hit something hard. He knew it was a boot. A boot worn by someone sprawled full length on the ground. The hands shoved him a little to the right. The grass felt slippery. His own boots seemed to be making an immense noise. There was no sound at all from the feet of the five men around him.

 _Why couldn't he hear Guerra's boots?_ The answer was obvious. Someone, probably the Negro again, was carrying him.

He could feel the ground beginning to slope upwards and remembered the little ridge at this edge of the camp. Much good it had done! Four Rebels had infiltrated their way in as if no look-outs or fires or defensive features existed. But after all he had seen in the last twenty hours, nothing they did surprised Slim any more. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was already filing away these tactics for future use. _If you can't beat your enemy, learn from them!_ Mort had drummed that into him often enough.

The enemy group halted suddenly. Movement rippled around Slim. He knew that Guerra was on his feet and standing close to him, a little to one side. He could tell by the agonised breathing. Someone grabbed his hair again through the shirt, forcing his head back. It was someone taller. Not the younger brother. For some reason he was glad of this. If he was going to die now, he hoped the younger brother would be holding the knife. Somehow he knew how much such an act would hurt the one who understood that he had been trying to aid Guerra and, in this shared knowledge, his death would not be valueless.

More movement. A different scent in his nostrils. A feeling of being dwarfed. They were all standing so close to him now. It felt as if all six of them were welded into one unit, joined in one purpose.

Very softly, hardly whispering, Guerra addressed Slim: "Sorry ... so sorry! We must make … it seem … as if you … were attacked too!"

Instantly huge hands tightened around his throat and his vision began to blur. He could not see the knife nor the slight figure who wielded it as it sliced across his shoulder and up his neck, missing his jugular with frightening precision before it scored through the muffling shirt and left a line of fire across his left cheek.

Slim slumped into utter darkness, but as he did so, gentle hands caught and lowered him to the ground.

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* * *

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NOTES:

Acknowledgement: _For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors._


	5. Chapter 5

**Encounter in Shadows**

Jantallian

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' _A friend loveth at all times and a brother is born for adversity_ _.'_ Proverbs 17:17

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 **Parting – North**

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 _He was suffocating!_

Blood clogged his nostrils and his cheek seemed to be glued to the ground. All along his body sticky patches soaked up into his clothes from the underlying turf. The sweet, sickly smell told him that he had been lying there for some time and the blood was beginning to congeal. A dead weight pressed his body into the ground. His arms were trapped underneath his body. His legs were pinned as if a log had fallen on them.

Slim tried desperately to move. His whole body convulsed with the initial panic of returning to consciousness in such a position. He could feel and hear nothing but the pounding of his heart. Adrenaline coursed through him as he struggled to fight his way back to …

 _To what? Where was he? What was pinning him down so immovably? Why was there so much blood?_

There were no answers. Nothing but suffocating blackness and the stench of blood. For a moment he was unsure if it was so black because it was deep night. Then he realised that the blood was caking his eyelids too. He could not open his eyes. The realisation caused another wave of panic. He couldn't wipe his eyes because his hands were trapped under his body. He might just as well have been tied up.

 _Someone should have tied him up. He could not remember who. Or why? But he had been gagged. That recollection was vivid._

Thinking about being gagged made it worse. His throat was parched and cloying at the same time. His stomach heaved in an abortive effort to retch.

 _He'd wanted to throw up before. He couldn't remember why, except that his body shuddered with the memory. But the memory drifted away from him like smoke on the wind. There had been smoke. Why couldn't he remember what had caused it? Why couldn't he remember where he was now?_

A third wave of panic struck. His mind seemed to be filled by an overwhelming shadow. He could not think or feel or reason. He only knew that darkness had come down upon him, body, mind and soul. He felt as if the person he had been before this darkness had been obliterated. He had no connection to anything … to anyone …

 _You are Matthew Sherman, my son … you'll experience many things in life … some of them will not be easy … some of them will hurt … some of them will make you want to change the whole world, some to fight to keep the goodness at the heart of it … be true … hold fast to who you are and what you believe … and allow other men the right to do the same …_

His father's voice was an anchor in the world of drifting smoke, a familiar warm light in the darkness. Slim could not draw a deep breath, but if he could have, he would. It was not in his nature to panic. He had not been brought up to instant reactions to situations, unless such speed was needed to save a life.

 _He had been saving a life. That was what was really important. Everything else could wait._

His breathing slowed and his pounding heart stopped trying to fight its way out of his chest. He shook his head, as far as he was able to move at all, trying to clear his blocked nostrils and get the hardened blood off his eyelids. His success was negligible, so he had to think again. Common sense was not much help. He had no idea of the situation in which he was trapped and so no idea of whether anyone would find him alive.

 _Should he try to signal for help or not? What was going on around him to suggest that anyone else might be in the vicinity?_

His ear was pressed tight to the ground. As if in answer to his thought, he half-heard, half-felt footsteps approaching. There was a low, guttural cry, filled with pain. A thud reverberated as someone dropped to their knees close by. Harsh sobs were interspersed with the agonised reiteration of names, like a litany to death.

 _Was he dead, then?_

Not Slim Sherman! While he had the spark of life in him, he would never give up or turn his face to the earth in despair. Through his mind flashed suddenly the vision of some time in the far distant future, when he might simply and readily accept the hand leading him forward from this life.

 _But not now! He was young and he was alive! And he would fight for life – his own and the lives of those he loved and the lives of those who struggled to make this land a land of free men and women._

But now there was a man close by. On his knees on the cold earth. He was within reaching distance of Slim. So close the heat of his body was a searing contrast to the cold of death which enveloped Slim.

 _See me! Find me!_

The man made no move. Just breathed curses mingled with names. Just sobbed with the gut-torn abandon which comes when a man can no longer pretend he has no emotions. Can no longer be strong. Can no longer face the horrors facing him.

 _Please!_

Slim's desperate prayer was answered by the further reverberation of approaching footsteps. More than one man was coming.

 _Surely they'll find me! Surely …_

"Taylor! What is it, man?"

It was Mort's voice.

Blessed relief flooded though Slim. Mort would not react emotionally. He would deal with the situation with all his usual level-headedness and responsibility. Even if Slim himself were dead, Mort would make sure that care was taken, practicalities dealt with and discipline maintained.

 _But he wasn't dead yet!_

"Sergeant Taylor, stand up! Report!" Mort's voice was calm and authoritative, bringing sanity to both the situation and the distraught man. Slim heard, felt, Taylor get slowly to his feet. Of course he could not literally see the man's face, but he could in his heart and mind. Taylor's voice said it all.

"They died because of me. It's a judgement on me. On us all, for what we did."

"Let's make sure they _are_ dead first."

Slim nearly died of relief as Mort took charge. He remembered now there had been guards. He had been guilty about their fate. He guessed that his worst fears were true. He must now be at the bottom of a pile of bodies.

"Lay them out," Mort ordered.

At last, the weight pinning Slim began to shift. His lungs burned as much needed air surged into them once more. His dry throat tried to croak out some sound to let them know he was not yet among the dead. Someone seized his shoulders and lifted him up. More air, gasped through a parched mouth, nearly had him relapse into unconsciousness.

 _He would not faint! He was alive! He was going to live!_

"This one's alive, Lieutenant!"

"Let me see."

It was not Mort. Far more skilful hands took hold of Slim and ran gently and professionally over his battered body. There was the blessed relief of a damp cloth wiping away the blood caking his face – a wry thought crossed his dazed mind that it was a good job he'd brought the bucket of water. And a canteen was being pressed to his lips, the cool liquid bringing his mouth and throat back to life.

"Can you sit up, Sherman?" It was the doctor, of course.

Slim opened his eyes and heaved himself up into sitting position. Standing was going to take a while longer. He looked around. Everything came back with a rush. He saw the dead tree with the broken branch and remembered the man hanging in chains. The man who had called him "brother". He remembered his own attempt to cleanse the wounds of beating and burning and to bring a little respite to a night of torture. He remembered how he had been able to accomplish this because Taylor had told the guard to face the perimeter and ignore all else. He remembered Taylor's own promise to look the other way. And he remembered not being able to see. Catching only a glimpse of the Rebel rescue party. Being dumbfounded by their race and loyalty. Seeing nothing of the fourth man, but knowing, without any doubt, that it was the younger brother, the brother about whom he felt -

It was only the horror of his position when he regained consciousness, buried under a pile of dead bodies, which had driven all these things from his memory. Now they came back like lightning striking his mind. The doctor was bending over him, sponging away more blood and muttering about the luck he'd had.

"This cut could have slit your jugular, just like the others. And how it missed your eye, I don't know!"

 _Skill,_ Slim wanted to say, _and a good heart behind the hand holding the knife._ But he could give his knowledge to no-one, not even Mort, not at this time. First he must see how the release of the prisoner was interpreted by those who had found him.

"Fetch blankets," Mort was ordering to some of the men who had come with him. "Wrap the bodies and put them with the others. Burial detail will be in the morning, before we strike camp."

There as a flurry of movement as they hastened to obey. When most of them had gone, Mort turned to the sergeant and asked the inevitable: "What happened, Taylor?"

The man gave a great shudder, but his shoulders went back and his head came up. He gathered himself together in what was obviously a great effort to speak. "I sent them to their deaths."

"We all do that," Mort said calmly. "Every time we issue an order, it can lead to men dying. That is the nature of authority. We are responsible."

Taylor shook his head. "I didn't have to order them to help torture Danny. If I hadn't followed the Captain's orders, there would be no need for the Rebs to take revenge."

Mort regarded him steadily. "These men were guarding against a rescue attempt. They died doing their duty. That's all any of us can ask."

Again Taylor shook his head. "They were supposed to be guarding the prisoner." His eyes turned briefly to where Slim was still slumped on the ground. "I moved them to guard the perimeter. I made that decision and they died."

"Taylor, they were on guard facing the enemy. They had a better chance than if they had been looking at the prisoner." Mort turned to the doctor, who was examining the bodies. "There was no gunfire. How did they die?"

The doctor straightened up, looking puzzled. "One strangled and his neck broken, two had their throats cut, the fourth was killed by a direct knife-thrust through the heart."

"Quiet," Mort observed, "and quick."

"I doubt if they knew what hit them," the doctor agreed. "Not a bad way, if you have to go." He was thinking of men dying of amputation and gangrene and blood-filled lungs, not to mention the fever and dysentery which ran rife through military hospitals.

"They didn't deserve it!" Taylor burst out again.

Mort laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Very few men are so evil that they _deserve_ to die. We all die in the end and, in war, we deliberately offer ourselves knowing the end may come sooner than we think."

"So let's take care of this young man, who was fortunate to survive such an attack," the doctor urged, helping Slim to his shaky feet and steering him in the direction of the hospital tent. "You can give thanks to Lady Luck, young man, that you didn't bleed to death or suffocate!"

"Maybe there was no good luck about it," Mort suggested thoughtfully. "Maybe our enemies saw Slim's compassion and answered it with their own?"

His insight was answered by a yell of rage!

"He's another cursed Rebel spy! If they didn't finish him off, I will!"

Captain Blake was stumbling towards them. He was alone. His uniform was crumpled and his tunic unbuttoned. He had no hat and his hair seemed to be standing on end with the force of his fury. His bloodshot eyes were locked on Slim as if he were solely responsible for all the defeats and injuries the troop had suffered.

"You connived with the enemy!" He spat the words out, before spitting literally as if he could so reject and eject Slim from his company. "You coward! Hiding behind men who can do a man's work to win this war!"

Slim straightened up his battered body, rising to his full height and standing square in the face of Blake's attack. "I will not be party to dishonourable conduct. There are laws for the treatment of our own men and even prisoners have rights."

Mort stepped over to stand next to him. He too looked the Captain directly in the eye. "You know flogging and torture have been made illegal for over a year. You cannot justify your actions."

"Justify them?" Blake sneered. "Why would I want to justify them? Do I have to account to some jumped up do-gooder like you?"

"No," Mort replied calmly. "You have to account to a higher authority."

"My men are loyal to me! And headquarters is far away – what they don't hear, won't hurt them!"

Mort looked at him searchingly, silently. Then he said: "I was thinking about God."

Blake stared at him, stunned. Almost instantly, his face convulsed and he began to laugh maniacally. "That's rich! That's priceless! You really think that you're on the side of the angels!"

"I doubt if the angels take any side in a war like this," was the measured response. "But we are accountable for how we chose to treat each other. We may kill in battle, in extremity, but we will never build a peaceful and prosperous nation until we can accept that all men have equal rights to justice and decent treatment. Surely that's what we're fighting for?"

A savage snarl erupted from Blake's throat and drops of spittle flew from his lips again. "We're fighting to obliterate the South! To slaughter every last damn' Johnny Reb! To scour them and their families and their sneaking, spying friends from the face of the earth! There is no quarter – no mercy – no end until they are wiped out!"

"Men cannot exist without mercy." Mort was still calmly unshakable, despite the horrifying picture which the Captain now presented.

"Mercy? What mercy was there in sending us here? Into this deadly wilderness! Without support! Without contact! Abandoning us as bait for the enemy … deserting us … deceiving, lying …"

Blake's voice slurred off into incoherent mumbling and, in the face of his total breakdown, Mort wondered if he was actually drunk as well. He moved instinctively, wanting to help share the burden, the enormous demands that command placed upon this young man. "Come now, Captain, you need rest, you need help. Let us help –"

Mort's intervention was cut off by a desperate shriek from Blake: "You! Keep out of my way! You corrupt my men, you and your backwoods philosophy! You let Sherman near my prisoner when I ordered you to keep him away! Now he's going to pay like the cursed Southern spy he is!"

Before any of them could register his intent, Blake drew the sword at his hip and lunged towards Slim. There was no time to reach for a gun and no-one near enough to seize him. Slim was utterly helpless in the face of the attack, injured as he was, and hampered by the sustaining grip the doctor had on him.

"No!"

Suddenly there was a body between Slim and the thrust of the sword. He saw, as if in slow motion, the jerk as the blade engaged with flesh and the convulsive lurch as the body gave in to the force piercing it. The tip of the sword slid out from the man's back, a shining sliver of death in the pale light of the dawn which had crept up upon them.

Slim had said that he had something to do, that the night was not over until the dawn. Now he knew just how prophetic those words were. The new light flooding gently over them served only to illuminate the horror of human actions.

Sergeant Taylor groaned, his hands outstretched as if to stop the Captain. Blood wheezed and bubbled in his throat as he issued his own last command: "No … more!"

As the man sagged forward against the deadly blade, Blake wrenched it from his body and whirled it around his own head, scattering bright drops of blood like scarlet petals from a tree of pain.

"More!" he screamed, as Taylor's body crumpled at his feet. "More death! More destruction! Death to the enemy – death for everyone! Never stop, never give in – no mercy - - no forgiving - - no - -"

His voice rose in a hideous jumble of obscenities and curses, but the sword stopped. It stopped when Mort seized his forearm in an iron grip and chopped the edge of his other hand hard across Blake's wrist. There was a scream and his fingers sprang open and the sword flew in a silver arc to thud upright into the ground. Slim leapt automatically to join Mort and grabbed Blake's other arm. Even against their combined strength, the power of raving madness was almost too much, especially for Slim in his already weakened state.

And then they realised they were not alone any more. Crowds of soldiers stood in stunned silence all around them, drawn by the sound of Blake's maddened tirade. No one moved except the struggling man and the two holding him.

"Schneider, Ward!" the doctor summoned his orderlies. "Help us!"

His request was answered not just by the men who worked with him, but by three others from the ranks. Together they restrained the demented man and guided him as gently as they could in the direction of his own tent. The doctor turned his attention to Slim, who was reeling after his sudden exertion.

"You clearly don't like sparing yourself, do you, Sherman?" he observed wryly.

"Never, ever, did," Mort murmured in agreement, before turning his full attention to the duties of his rank and the needs of the troops. "Fall in, men!"

When the lines had smartened to attention, Mort Cory looked them over carefully. Except for those on guard or injured, almost every man in the company had witnessed what had happened. He knew already many of them were profoundly disturbed by the Captain's actions and his treatment of Guerra, not to mention confused about how their trusted sergeant came to be in such a position. He understood that now they needed clear direction and discipline in order to restore their confidence and unity, otherwise the situation was going to fall even further into chaos and distrust. Yet he did not attempt to harangue them or simply use his rank to enforce obedience. He felt too well the sorrow and uncertainty in many of their hearts when the man in charge of their life or death was so clearly not in charge of his own.

Mort let everyone feel the difference of the cohesive discipline, which had brought them all to attention, before he spoke: "At ease." There was a distinct feeling of relief in the air at the familiar command. Mort's next words were unexpected.

"It is dawn. A new day. A new start." Some sighs of thankfulness could be distinctly heard. "Until we are able to communicate with headquarters, we will continue to do our duty with the discipline and integrity and the courage expected of us. There will be changes in command only because this is necessary for the security of the company at the present time. Right now, prepare to move out. Break your fast. Ready your equipment. Full parade at 5.00 am. Ammunition will be issued then, as needed. You will be informed of the command structure when Lieutenant McCormick, Doctor Anderson, Doctor Powell and I have decided how best to proceed. Dismissed!"

As the men moved briskly away, now certain what was required of them, Mort turned and put an arm round Slim, helping support him as they made their way to the hospital tent. Not only could Slim's wounds be attended too, but both doctors would be there and so was the injured Lieutenant McCormick. For now, no-one was asking any questions – they were all too thankful the terrible shadows of that night were driven away at last.

 **#####**

The decisions which had to be made were made swiftly. It was impossible for McCormick to resume his post and, when the extent of Blake's madness was explained by the doctors, he willingly agreed that full authority should be given to Mort Cory. The chain of command had been seriously weakened by the loss of both sergeants and the fact that neither of Blake's lieutenants, one injured and the other absent, was in a position to take on the duties of the Captain. Stevens, the scout, in whom Mort had come to place considerable trust, was summoned to join the conference and was able to agree with McCormick a couple of names of men who would undertake a sergeant's responsibility seriously and thoroughly.

"But there is another possibility in my mind," Stevens added when the names were agreed. "What about your man, young Sherman?"

Mort nodded, pleased that Slim's qualities and calibre had been noticed by others. "I've been thinking he could bear promotion, although he's very young."

"But he's brave, trustworthy and honourable," Dr. Anderson pointed out.

"And sharp-eyed!" Stevens added with a grin.

"Very well," Mort agreed, after receiving a nod of approval from his fellow lieutenant. "I think with only one of our rank fully fit, three acting sergeants will not go amiss. Would you send an orderly to fetch the men, please?"

It was a total surprise to Slim to find himself thus suddenly promoted. He would principally be in command of the men who had come with Mort, but also of those who had been under Guerra's supervision. Mort figured that they, most of all, would be willing to accept a new sergeant who had done so much for the one they had no longer. He spared a fleeting thought for Guerra – _What had Taylor called him? 'Danny'? Someone's brother and some father's son and someone who was now where his heart belonged!_

The camp was buzzing with activity like an upturned hive. Tents were struck, teams harnessed, wagons cleared for the wounded and pack animals loaded with the displaced supplies. All the while a tight watch was kept on the perimeter, but there was no sign from the enemy.

By 5.00 am Mort's orders had been carried out to the letter. Ammunition was issued and the men ready, drawn up in ranks, facing towards their home in the north. Facing the dead tree. Facing the graves which the burial party had dug close by.

When they were called to attention by his newest and youngest sergeant, Mort outlined the revised chain of command. Lieutenant McCormick, despite his injuries, insisted on being supported upright in the back of the wagon, so that he could address the men. He gave Mort Cory his whole-hearted endorsement. He also explained that the Captain had been heavily sedated: under the circumstances, with such decimation of the officers, there was no option but to march back northwards until they joined up with the Wyoming contingent sent to reinforce them. Once this had been done, proper decisions could be taken about the future of their mission into enemy territory. This information was, understandably, greeted with considerable relief.

Lieutenant Cory then formally addressed the men: "We leave the field of battle. Not because we have been defeated. Not because we lack courage. Not because we concede anything to our enemy. We march in good order. We march to join our comrades in arms. We march to increase our strength and our resolution so that, ultimately, we will have the victory. First, before we depart, we honour our dead."

In the stillness of the early morning, Cory read the burial service. The bodies were lowered reverently and gently into their graves. The earth rustled and whispered as it was returned to its proper place. Simple wooden crosses marked each one and, above them all, the dead tree raised its stark branches against the morning sky. Lieutenants McCormick and Cory ordered a volley to be fired. The echoes rolled round the quiet valley. Then the bugle summoned the company to advance.

Slim Sherman had been placed in command of the rear-guard. He and the Wyoming contingent remained beside the graves as the massed ranks began their orderly northward march. Slim watched carefully the conduct of Guerra's men. He was glad to see that they were more resolute and confident than they had been over the last twenty four hours. With clear orders and a definite plan of campaign, they were once more willing to give their all.

 _Was it only twenty four hours since he had ridden into this camp? The battle – the raid – the abortive pursuit – the torture – the rescue … How could so much have been compressed into so few hours?_ He felt as if he had lived a life-time, one of more importance than all his preceding nineteen years. In reality, he knew this was not true. His upbringing and the advice and example of his father were far more than a mere twenty years of experience or this one day. But his family had suddenly expanded. He had a new brother – no, two brothers, even if one did not know it, despite their having been physically so close to each other. _What would Guerra say to his young brother if he had the chance? He had been in such a terrible condition, probably beyond further speech for a long time. But he had claimed relationship to Slim, a brotherhood indeed born for adversity. That would never change!_

Meanwhile, Slim would be glad to re-join his proper regiment and a command not splintering into madness under the strains put on it. Blake had been alone, unsupported by anyone with wisdom like that which had always guided Slim, in the form of one Mort Cory. Little surprise that he had been unable to bear the isolation of his secret mission and the decisions and tasks which it thrust upon him! Slim was glad too that the man had proper medical care, although who knew what tribunals he might eventually have to account to. Yet not, at least now, the ultimate one which Mort had reminded him of.

And the thought of death turned Slim's mind to the graves beside him and the men who would never return to their families. _Some had died directly as a result of the battle_. _The guards had paid a less certain price. They were just ordinary men, not evil, just blind to the implications of their orders. Perhaps all soldiers had to be a little blind or they would never take up arms against each other?_ Slim knew there was no easy answer. His own conduct would be condemned by many, but he had acted according to his conscience and his knowledge of the law and he was prepared to stand the consequences of what he had done.

Now he was doing his duty. Not just overseeing the withdrawal of the men and their orderly progress on the long journey ahead, but keeping alert for the enemy who had been so skillful in avoiding detection. All the while he had been thinking about the events he had been through, his sharp eyes had been automatically scanning the surrounding countryside through which the long column of soldiers was making its way at a steady trot. It was too easy to be caught unawares; they had learnt that to their cost.

Finally the last of his new command had ridden off and the Wyoming contingent fell in behind them.

"Keep your eyes open," Slim reminded them. "There's no reason to suppose the Confederates won't attack again."

"Unless they've ate and drunk themselves into a stupor!" Maurice quipped. "They've got enough of our supplies."

"And our ammunition," Slim pointed out. "If they're well armed now, who knows what they'll try. It's up to us to make sure they aren't following."

He reined in his horse as he spoke, slowing to a walk and allowing the men to get a little ahead of him. He halted and turned the horse, looking back towards the single landmark left - the dead tree. He wanted to be alone. To have one quiet moment. To pledge himself to a brotherhood beyond the bitterness of war. To a single nation which would bind people together, not cut the ties between them.

As he sat looking over the site of the camp and the battle, his eyes touched on the tree … the graves … the horizon. On the little ridge which formed the end of the valley, he saw a single horseman who had obviously just galloped onto the skyline and halted, his horse stopping totally suddenly in a way which argued skilled riding. Slim could see from the way the rider was sitting – or rather seemed to be moulded to his mount and totally at one with it – that he was riding bareback, Apache-fashion. But Slim knew it was not an Apache looking down at him. The rider sat there, silhouetted against the pale morning sky as if he was waiting for something.

Not for one moment, despite his vigilance against attack, did Slim think that this rider was the forerunner of the Rebel band. Instead he too was waiting. Waiting for something which, he soon realised, was not going to happen, not now, not in this moment.

 _Goodbye._ The words were in his heart, not on his lips. The old words of parting, the words Danny Guerra had used: _God be with you._

He raised his hand in a spontaneous salute and almost in the same instant the rider's arm was raised too. A long, low, guttural cry vibrated through the still air. A word or words in an unknown language, but whose meaning he understood.

Slim's hand fell back to his side. He turned his horse and set his face to the north.

.

 **#####**

 **###**

 **#**

.

 **Parting – South**

.

 _There was so much blood!_

The grass was slippery under his bare feet as he lowered to the ground the body of the man he had just stabbed through the heart. Through his mind flicked a brief wonder that the gods in the old tales he had heard demanded blood as a pleasing sacrifice. _Must be the gods of war. Who else would want such waste? Want the warm pulsing flow of life to be fed to the hungry ground to appease their wrath? Who could bear to live through such things?_ His thought jumped instantly to his companions. _Maybe the Apache? He knew full well they did not regard cruel pain and death the way those of his kind did. Knew that they accepted them as part of the great cycle of life._

There was no time for such wandering thoughts. He had taken down the fourth guard, choosing a direct blow to the heart, whereas the Apache, ever practical, had simply slit the throats of the others and Hammer used his huge grip equally silently. He was not perturbed either by the necessity of killing nor the blood itself. It was not the first time he had killed in such a way nor would it be the last. And he had heard when these men had been warned to watch the perimeter for just such a covert attack as he and his companions had mounted. Their observation had simply not been up to the stealth of their enemy and so they had died in a sudden, soundless fight which was over almost before it had begun.

Now the way was clear. Kuruk and Taklishim were ahead of him and he felt the shadows move as Hammer drifted to the tree to apply his great strength to the branch holding Dan. His brother was unconscious, slumped forward with his entire weight hanging from his arms, which were cruelly twisted behind him. His wrists were manacled and the chains had been padlocked together, so there was no chance of just sliding them off the branch. In any case, the end was a mess of jagged spikes, making it impossible to do so. The way he had been fastened was tantamount to crucifixion and it was obvious that he could barely breathe.

Jess knew his brother would be taking the pain, recognising it and accepting it, then allowing it to trigger deeply ingrained responses. All the brothers had learned, in the face of what should be overwhelming agony, to step aside from the needs and demands of the body and remain in the still centre at the heart of the storm as it broke over them. He'd done the same himself, when his obdurate defiance earned him a milder lashing, but it did not lessen his fury that Dan's own comrades had been willing to torture him.

Stilling his rage with a mighty effort, Jess made himself focus on the purposeful but silent activity of his companions. Hammer was already sawing the branch slowly and carefully with his knife, making the strokes as noiseless as he could. Taklishim had joined him, carefully supporting Dan with one arm so that he could breathe more easily, while also adding his blade to the attack of the tree. Immediately in front of them, Kuruk was restraining someone, his hand over their mouth and his other arm clamping their arms immobile.

 _Nitis! Dan had called him 'friend'. Certainly saved his life. He must be worth it!_

Jess could see only a gleam of fair hair over Kuruk's shoulder, for the rest of the man, tall as he was, was hidden by the powerful body of the Apache. Almost absently, Jess realised from this clue that it must be the soldier who had knelt outside the Captain's tent, helping Dan before. But his over-riding concern now was to get Dan away before he died and before they were caught. Nothing else mattered!

Close to the foot of the tree there was a bucket of water, a canteen and a small haversack. Jess moved like a swift shadow and with no more sound than any of the others. He bent down and examined the contents of the bag. Medicine! Salve, iodine, gauze and bandages proved that someone had cared enough to provide the means to heal Dan's wounds. But they could not linger to apply them now. He closed the bag and hitched the strap across his body, ready for action.

The sawing of the branch was not going well. Despite the calm, deliberate way Hammer and Taklishim were working, tension rose in contrast to the slowness of their progress. They were all willing the wood to give way, but only patience and persistence would achieve it without betraying noises giving away their presence.

Kuruk shifted impatiently and seemed to come to a quick decision. He yanked the prisoner's shirt up over his face and stuffed the material ruthlessly in his mouth, rendering him incapable of giving any alarm, even if he had wanted to. He dragged the man's arms behind his head and a swift twist of the material pinioned him effectively. As he did so, something fell from the pocket of the soldier's tunic, something small and light, with a faint glimmer of glass in the dark.

Instantly, Jess moved to retrieve it, hardly daring to hope that it might be what they needed. He dropped to his knees besides the prisoner's boots and felt carefully amongst the grass blades. His fingers touched something cold, smooth and small. He grasped it gently. In his hand was a little phial.

Jess became totally still. _Laudanum! He could not believe it!_ Joyful recognition, as vivid as the tension in them all, surged through him. Inside, he heaved a great sigh of relief. He knew the drug and how to use it. He silently blessed the man at whose feet he was kneeling.

All at once, Kuruk was signalling him to take hold of the prisoner and keep him immobilised and gagged. The brave shifted to the left and Jess took his place, allowing the Apache to use his greater height and reach to add his knife to the assault on the branch. Jess's entire concentration was on the task in hand - the faint whisper of the knives on the wood – the faintest clink of the chains as Taklishim lifted Dan to help him breath – the creak from too much pressure on the branch. He hardly noticed the stature of the man he was restraining nor his powerful, muscular body nor the scent of leather and salve and sweat and a faint trace of soap. If he thought anything at all about this, it was to note subconsciously that Yankee troops did not starve – but then, he knew that fact already. He simply maintained just as deadly fierce a grip on the man as Kuruk would have done, keeping him quiet and still while the others struggled to work silently and yet to force the timber to yield.

Yield it did at last! Hammer used his unsurpassed strength to take the weight of both timber and man as the branch finally parted in two. Of all of them, he was the one who was most able to hold up half a tree and let his companions carefully pull off the chains. They did so incredibly cautiously, for there was no sound. Jess wanted to shout and leap in triumph, but he did no such thing nor did he slacken his hold on the prisoner by one iota.

The two Apache caught Dan as the chains slid free of the branch. But it was Hammer, with all the gentleness Jess had always known from him, who scooped up the injured man and began to carry him towards the camp boundary. Abruptly Jess swung the man he was holding round in the same direction, giving him a forceful thrust to get him moving. The prisoner stumbled forward, but began shuffling his feet as quietly as he could, seeming to understand that they must avoid being heard. There was no sound at all from the bare feet of the five men around him. Jess shoved him a little to the right when he made contact with the boot of one of the dead guards. The grass was still slippery with blood, for despite what seemed like an endless struggle with the branch, in reality the rescue mission had been accomplished in remarkably little time.

Where the ground began to slope upwards towards the little ridge at this edge of the camp, they stopped. Now they must do something with their prisoner. They did not want to take him with them – he would merely encumber the swift raids of the Ranulfiar and the Apache had no interest in keeping him alive, except for Dan's designation of him as a friend. Hammer gently lowered Dan to the ground, but kept tender, protective arms around him so that he could stand, for the wounded man's breathing was agonised. Kuruk took over from Jess once more, grabbing the soldier's hair again through the shirt, forcing his head back.

Swift hand signals passed between Jess and the two Apache, while Hammer watched intently, being unable to join in because of his support for Dan. Dan himself understood that they could not leave the man loose when they escaped from the camp, however good his intentions towards himself were. For his own sake, he must appear to have been with the guards.

Taklishim moved to take over supporting Dan, while Hammer closed in on the prisoner, his hands open and ready. Kuruk held him immobile. Jess drew his knife. They were all standing so close to the soldier now. It felt as if all six of them were welded into one unit, joined in one purpose.

Very softly, hardly whispering, Dan addressed the one he had named both friend and brother: "Sorry ... so sorry! We must make … it seem … as if you … were attacked too!"

Instantly one of Hammer's huge hands tightened around the soldier's throat, pressing on his windpipe. In a lightning stroke, Jess made as if to cut that throat, but deliberately angled his blade so it sliced across his shoulder and up his neck, missing his jugular with frightening precision before it scored through the muffling shirt and cut across his left cheek.

As the prisoner slumped into utter darkness, Hammer's gentle hands caught and lowered him to the ground. While Jess slid off to collect the horses, Hammer set the man's shirt to rights and made sure that he had only lost consciousness. Then he nodded to the two Apache. They made short work of dragging over the other bodies, piling them, with care to leave some breathing space, on top of the one Dan wanted them to save.

Hammer once more gathered Dan into his arms and carried him swiftly to the waiting mounts. Without the sound of a single hoof beat, the four rescuers melted like shadows into the night.

 **#####**

They stopped by the river to examine Dan's injuries and work out the best way to get him to some permanent refuge where he would have a chance to heal. Jess was mightily glad that Hammer had chosen to be part of the raid. The big man's strength and gentleness made handling Dan much easier and less painful for him. And, despite being able and willing to kill someone with his bare hands, he did not act rashly or out of anger, but with a steady, placid purposefulness which achieved more than any heroics. Now he let Dan gently down from where he had been carrying him on his own horse. The two Apache lifted the injured man onto a suitable rock, close to the waterside. His rescuers had their first good look at him.

Dan was actually in better shape than they could have expected. Gauze and clean linen had been applied delicately over healing salve on some of his burns and the deeper cuts on his arms and legs. His body was a mess of torn flesh and scorched skin, but someone had tried to clean the cuts, sooth the burns and wash away the worst of the blood. His face was so battered that the swelling was forcing his eyes into mere slits. No-one would recognise now the similarity to his little brother which he had sought to conceal.

Jess was trying to be thankful. _Dan was alive. They'd got him away_. He thought nothing of the mistreatment which he himself had suffered. But the damage to somebody he loved made him incandescent with rage. _He wanted to kill someone! Preferably more than one someone! In fact everyone who had laid a hand on his brother!_ The fact that he had killed one man in the course of the rescue and that three others had died meant nothing. They were merely incompetent guards. Such deaths were a 'given' in war. He did not desire anonymous vengeance. He wanted to kill a perpetrator who knew exactly why he was doing it. He wanted each one involved to understand that their guilt brought death upon them. The searing pain he felt at being the cause of Dan's suffering stirred again his own agonised guilt over the death of his family, which no amount of killing would blot out until he had hunted down every last one of the Bannister gang. _And when the war was over, he'd send them to the flames of hell they deserved!_ He just was not sure how close his own responsibility for the tragedy brought him to those very same flames.

Now he was squatting at Dan's feet, the way he'd always sat in the dust as a kid, when his big brothers were occupying the steps of the porch and their elders had all the chairs. He looked up with just the same admiration he'd always felt for Dan. But his heart was a fierce turmoil of love and anger and pain and bewilderment. There were so many questions and no time and no strength in his brother to answer them.

"I owe that soldier," Jess said softly. "The fair one, in front of the tent. He did this too." He gestured to the bandaging.

Dan nodded. "Was from …"

"Hush now, don't waste your precious breath on a Yankee, even the best of them. Let's just say he was from the side of the angels!"

A travesty of a grin crossed Dan's battered face, but the effort it cost him was clear. "Ain't joinin' angels …"

"We though y'had. You and Tom. At Ojo Caliante."

Dan shook head. "Tom … Califo …" He coughed and struggled against the dryness of his throat and Hammer lifted the canteen to his lips again.

"Tom went for California?"

Again Dan nodded. "Heard 'bout ranch. We … too late … all gone!"

"Yeah." There was such pain in Jess's single word that Dan reached out a hand to him. But his hands were the most damaged thing about him. The brothers could neither embrace each other nor even hold hands.

Jess gently touched his finger tip to Dan's. "Johnny and Fran are with Nde." He looked round at Kuruk, who gave a confirming nod. "All the rest … gone …" His voice choked on a swallowed sob.

"You – here!" All Dan's thankfulness for their reunion and his rescue rang through the simple words.

"But what the hell are y' doin' fightin' for the Yankees, Dan?" Jess demanded in sudden outrage. "Ain't never thought y'd sell yourself at any price!"

Dan drew as deep a breath as he could manage, knowing Jess deserved the truth and trying to compress it into as few words as possible. "Too high a price. Yanks burnt m' home. Raped an' killed wife. Slaughtered baby. Son. Swore to take vengeance to heart of army. Spy." He panted with the effort of speaking at such length, but was determined to continue. He took another long draught of water and said plainly: "Some good Yankees. Cared for men I served with." He struggled to express the horror of betrayal. "M'body's scarred, but not so scarred as m'heart!"

Again Jess's fingertips brushed Dan's gently. His understanding was plain, not just in his face, but in the darkening of his eyes as he received and accepted this new burden of pain and grief. "It's over now. Y' can rest. When we get you somewhere safe, y' can heal in peace."

He rose to his feet with the same sinuous ease which the Apache commanded. He turned to the two warriors and asked: "Can y' get him as far as the church at Pueblo los Infantos? Father Paul'll look after him."

Kuruk and Taklishim exchanged looks – and the looks were not encouraging.

"It ain't that far," Jess pointed out.

Taklishim shrugged. "No distance. Two days to trader post. Little sierra – another two. Only longer if kʼisé weakens."

"What then?" Jess was impatient, frustrated and not thinking clearly. It took a few seconds for the reason to dawn. He grinned when he realised what the problem was. "The old vulture won't turn you away. He'll have forgotten all about y' borrowin' his best pack mules –"

"Stole! Not borrowed!" Taklishim retorted sharply, his pride evidently having been stung.

Jess grinned again. "Anyway, he'll do anything for Dan. He was the only one of us could ever master spellin'!"

The Apache exchanged further looks in which a whole discussion was conveyed without a word being spoken. Kuruk nodded in acceptance for them both.

"Y' could do with a ridin' mule," Hammer pointed out. "Or y' could take m'horse. I can double with Jess."

Both braves shook their heads this time and indicated that Dan would ride one of their horses. Hammer was baffled until he remembered hearing that an Apache warrior would expect to travel as much as seventy miles on foot in a day. Doubtless they would take it in turns to walk and run beside the horses. After all, horses had been known to founder long before the men did.

So they came to the time of parting.

Dan was adamant that Jess must not accompany him. "Y' brothers there!" His arm jerked in the direction of the far bank of the river. "Stay true. Cal'll need y'." Then his eyes turned to the north. "An' there."

None of them understood what he meant, but it brought their attention back to the activities of the Yankee troop.

"Think they'll come after you?" Jess asked anxiously.

It was Dan's turn to shrug.

"They won't risk a big party, if they do," Jess guessed. "The Ranulfiar have enough strength left to deal with it if need be." He turned to Hammer. "Ride back and warn Vin. Let him know what's happened – just in case."

Hammer gave him a long look and asked: "An' just what you intendin' t'do y'self, Jess?"

"I'm goin' back to keep watch. If they move, I can alert you all before they pick up the trail."

"No trail," Kuruk assured them and Jess knew there would indeed be virtually no tracks for the enemy to follow.

"We still need to know what they're doin'," Jess insisted.

Hammer continued to look hard at him. "You ain't plannin' anything stupid, are y'? The boss'll have my hide if I lose y'!"

"He ain't gonna do any such thing! And you know it full well," Jess retorted. "It's my hide he'll be leatherin'. Hell, he'll probably be glad to get rid of me – less trouble for everyone."

"Nuthin' stupid, Jess!" Hammer repeated, the order clear in his otherwise calm voice. "Want y' word."

"You got it," Jess told him without hesitation.

This satisfied Hammer. He knew Jess would not give his word and break it, however great the provocation and whatever recklessness he had in mind. _And, the good Lord knew, he was reckless to extremity! Not least where his kin were concerned._ But Dan was safe now and Jess's tie with Cal was in some ways even stronger. It did not mean, however, he would necessarily return to the Ranulfiar – and Hammer knew what that would do to everyone's morale.

He looked at Jess with stern affection. "Wolf-cub, you comin' back t'us! You ain't gonna hightail it after y'brother the moment m'backs turned, are you!"

Kuruk made a swift hand-sign leaving no doubt about exactly what Jess would get if he did. They all laughed and Jess shook his head. "I'll come back."

"Now!" Hammer was leaving no loop-hole.

"Yeah. When I'm done watchin' and got enough facts to help."

So Hammer took the medical supplies from the pack he carried, together with what remained in the one Jess had brought from the camp and set about making Dan as fit for the long journey as he could. Even with all the treatment, it would still be agonising for him to ride double with someone and Hammer only hoped that somehow he and the Apache would find the strength to keep him on his horse.

Jess could see the concern for the stresses of travel in every muscle and movement as Hammer worked. He told the big man reassuringly: "Dan'll make it. He can do it. We were taught to deal with pain – the hard way!" His gaze flicked for a second to the Apache. "He'll survive. I ain't gonna lose him again!"

For suddenly, deep in his guts, was the instinctive knowledge that this brother – lost and so briefly found – he might never see again. Pushing this paralysing fear into the locked compartment of his mind kept for just such ideas, Jess instead acted practically. He handed over the little phial of laudanum and explained to his friends how to use it when Dan needed the respite of sleep. That was the only gift he could give to his brother and it came from a stranger he could not even thank.

Now there were no words. There was not even the possibility of a hug. Not even a parting handshake. When he was mounted on Taklishim's horse, Dan leaned down and ruffled his little brother's hair. Then, despite the pain, he tightened his grip and tugged Jess's face against his bandaged leg.

Jess stayed motionless for a heart-wrenching moment.

He looked up eventually and gave Dan the Ranulfiar salute: "Cut one of us, we all bleed!"

Dan tugged his hair again.

"Stay true."

"As long as I'm breathin'!"

Dan let go. The others mounted up and Kuruk lead his party down into the river, Taklishim walking alongside Dan, ready to support him, as he would do for many miles. There they halted and looked back at the two on the bank.

"Ashoge!" Jess called softly.

"A he ya eh," came the reply.

 _Yes, he knew that he and all his brothers were truly welcome to the People's unswerving support._

There was only one thing left to say and it had a finality which acknowledged the dangers and hardships they all must face. Simultaneously they chose the same farewell.

"Yadalanh!" was torn from four throats.

 **#####**

Experience and training made Jess slow Spirit from the furious gallop at which he had left the river bank. He had watched the horses and men until they vanished into the pre-dawn twilight. Hammer had leaned over and seized him in a bone-crunching hug and he knew he was not truly bereft of brotherhood. Quite the contrary! But he needed to break once and for all with this encounter and with the fear that he would never see Dan again.

So he had fled, hell for leather, hoping to abandon pain and guilt and grief and loss in the wind of his going. Now he must do his part, control himself so that he could serve the needs of the Rebel band, as well as his own family. At the mouth of the valley he halted and listened carefully. The wind was blowing directly towards him and the light was growing stronger by the minute as the sun inched its way gradually above the high mesa behind him.

There were none of the early morning sounds of a waking camp. This was not so surprising, given the events of the night. But there was no sound of alarm either. No indication in the reverberations of orderly, purposeful movement which suggested the pursuit of the prisoner. Instead there was a sudden volley fired. The echoes rolled round the quiet valley.

 _A salute to the dead!_ Then there was a rumble of sound he recognised. A sound common to all military camps. _They were pulling out!_

In confirmation of this, the bugle summoned the company to advance.

It was essential to find out in which direction they were heading. Jess made a split-second decision and urged Spirit into a gallop again. He could snatch a glimpse from the top of that little ridge and be gone before they realised he had been there. So once more he went like the wind, into the wind which drove into their nostrils the smell of smoke and dung and blood and dust. Light flooded over his back, the warmth caressing his bare skin like the hand of a friend, and lighting his way as if the angels were riding in his wake.

But he was not protected by divine immunity, not unless he used his brain as well as his overpowering sense of destiny. At the summit of the ridge, he gave Spirit the signal for an instant halt and took in the scene below him in one gestalten glance.

 _They were moving north! Retreating!_ Relief coursed through him with an almost painful force. _No one would pursue Dan. No one would_ _try to penetrate the secrecy of the Ranulfiar_.

Jess sat utterly motionless. His stillness communicated to Spirit and the pony too remained stock-still, only the breeze moving his mane and tail.

The long file of horsemen wound away towards the northern horizon, the dust of their passage rolling lazily in the wind, just as the cloud of battle had roiled and seethed across the valley less than twenty four hours ago. Jess felt as if he had lived a lifetime in those hours. Now he wanted just to be alone. To have one quiet moment. To pledge himself to learn new brotherhood beyond the bitterness of war. To pursue the longing for a single nation which would join people together, not sever and crush the ties between them.

He was waiting. Looking down towards the single landmark left - the dead tree. He was waiting for something. Waiting for something which could happen at any moment.

Beside the tree, a row of mounds marked the graves of those who had fallen in battle and those whom they had killed in the night. Close by stood a small contingent of horsemen. Almost as soon as Jess had become still, they began to move off, the last of the enemy to quit the territory which the Ranulfiar would never yield.

The rear-guard had ridden only a short way when one of the riders dropped back and halted. He turned his horse to face the deserted camp … the tree … the graves … the ridge.

There was a glimpse of sunlight glinting on the fair hair under the Yankee's hat. _Was it the compassionate one who'd tended Dan? He'd never know._ But this man too was waiting, waiting for something as the low, bright beams of light from the sunrise drew a connecting thread between them. Jess lifted his hand in a spontaneous salute and, almost in the same instant, the soldier's hand was raised too.

Jess had intended to drive the retreating troops out of Confederate territory with a last, victorious Rebel yell. What came out of his throat was something quite different – the long ululating Apache farewell: "E - go - ga - han! Until - we - meet - again …"

A benediction for the brother from whom he was parted and for the brother, born out of adversity, whom he had never met.

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NOTES:

Thank you to everyone who has patiently and enthusiastically read this story one chapter at a time. I normally only post complete stories, but this one just seemed to want to be unfolded one encounter at a time. These encounters clearly give clues about what might transpire in the future and I now know why I could not finish _Wolves' Clothing,_ since it deals with the first encounter Slim has with Cal and Vin. So there will more – it will just take time (and I'm not sure how much) to allow the story to work itself out.

Grateful thanks in writing this one go especially to Marie Warner for giving me the dating of the revision of punishment laws in the Union and Confederate armies and to Laramie Station for information on the situation for slaves at the time.

Vocabulary:

Ashoge Thank you

A he ya eh You're welcome

Egogohan Till we meet again

Kʼisé Brother

Nde (the) people

Nitis Friend

Yadalanh Farewell

Acknowledgement: _For all chapters: The great creative writing of the 'Laramie' series is respectfully acknowledged. My stories are purely for pleasure and are inspired by the talents of the original authors, producers and actors._


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